American Lit
by poppyandpeony
Summary: Sylvia Plath said "If you expect nothing from anybody, you're never disappointed." Bella Swan would have to agree. Then again, she hasn't met Edward Cullen…yet. A wit-fit. Rated M for later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

_**All copyrights, trademarked items, or recognizable characters, plots, etc. mentioned herein belong to their respective owners. No copying or reproduction of this work is permitted without their express written authorization.**_

_**prompt-lope, cope, mope**_

**_I've been sitting on this one for years. Years. I figured a wit-fit was what I needed to push me into the shallow end. _**

**_Enjoy._**

* * *

"If you expect nothing from anybody, you're never disappointed."

Sylvia Plath, _The Bell Jar_

* * *

It's 2:06 and she can't breathe.

They stampede through the door: feet shuffling, bags dropping, and desks screeching across tired linoleum.

"You have marker on your face, Miss Swan."

Mumbling thanks, she turns to face the board, wiping her cheek with a clammy hand and trying to ignore the giggles erupting behind her back.

_54 more minutes, Bella._

There is one last fruitless attempt to clean her face before she turns to them and begins their near-daily routine.

She tells them the day's agenda. The ones who aren't ignoring her completely roll their eyes or laugh. She pretends not to notice and asks halfheartedly for last night's homework. They don't have it, they don't bother making excuses, and she demands none. She explains the assignment. Read the poem. Answer the questions on the worksheet. Today, it's Emily Dickinson, but it doesn't really matter because they won't do it, and she really doesn't expect them to. They continue to talk, to throw paper objects across the room, to eventually doze off.

She retreats to her desk and reads silently.

Today, it's a travel book about China, and she loses herself in the brightly colored photos of raven-haired women with porcelain skin, of wooden chopsticks lying beside glistening bread, of golden buddhas and statues made of jade. This is the part where her heart clenches, where she wonders if she will ever see anything that beautiful up close.

_No, Bella. _

_Of course not._

She sniffs and turns the page.

"You okay, Miss Swan?"

Sadness gives way to shock that any of them were paying attention. She lifts her head from the book to find Rosalie Hale, and now several others, staring at her. Rosalie's face is usually hard lines and red lipstick, but her temporary concern has softened her, and for a moment Bella is struck by the beauty of this young woman dressed in black cloth and metal.

"I'm fine, Rosalie. Thank you."

_Liar._

Rosalie's smirk says the same thing as she turns around in her seat to talk to Lauren.

Bella pretends to have something in her eye, but all she can really do is clench her fist and pray that she won't lose it in front of a bunch of sixteen year olds. Her fingernails slice into her palm and she winces from the pain, but welcomes the distraction. Her heart beats in her chest and her stomach and her head, until a siren sounds and she finally, finally exhales.

Because it's 3:00 and she can breathe again.

Her students shuffle leaden feet out the door, headphones placed in ears long before the final bell rang, the celebration of a Friday afternoon temporarily stalled until they are away from her room. Soon, locker doors will slam shut, voices will shout plans and logistics, and ancient cars will grumble to life.

For now, she stands at the lectern and organizes her notes without actually looking at them, part of her wishing one of them would turn around and ask her a question, and the other terrified that they'll do just that.

But they all leave without saying anything. Not a single goodbye or thank you.

And she doesn't blame them.

Her purse hangs heavy on her shoulder, weighed down by all the promises she didn't keep today: the unopened bottle of water, the credit card bill (now past due), the novel she meant to start weeks ago.

She is nearly across the threshold he starts waddling toward her, sweaty with entitlement, his walkie-talkie strapped to his side like a gun.

"Leaving early, Bella?"

She winces, feebly attempting to sidestep his advance and nearly knocking over a desk.

"Of course not, Mr. Newton."

"Please, Bella. I keep telling you to call me Mike."

"Sorry, Mike. Is there something I can do for you?"

"We just heard from Mrs. Cope. Looks like she'll be out for the rest of the semester."

She tries to turn her shock into a smile.

"Great."

She always was a terrible actress.

"Bella, I know Mrs. Cope has some of the more difficult classes here. Your sixth period class is, of course, especially…challenging."

"I hadn't noticed."

He leans in, like he's going to tell her a secret, like they are in on this together.

"Look, we don't expect you to work miracles. Just keep them busy, keep them quiet. Most of them will be gone before their senior year anyway."

For some reason, this makes her frown.

"Why?"

He chuckles.

"Oh come Bella, you're not that naïve. They either end up in adult ed, jail, or pregnant."

Bella thinks of Rosalie Hale, and she wants to ask Mike about people surprising you and self-fulfilling prophecies, but she is interrupted by the smell of Axe body spray and cafeteria casserole as he steps closer, his eyes alight with false sincerity.

"How are you holding up, Bella?"

He says it in the slow and hushed tone that, in the past three months, she has come to hate. Especially when no one ever asked her that question before. When she was watching Charlie's skin turn from yellow to grey, when she was holding a bucket for his vomit or cleaning the bed after he shit his pants.

Or at the end, when it was only her sitting next to him, wondering if his next thick and garbled breath would be his last.

No. No one wanted to know how she was then.

It was only after the funeral, after the polished wood and pretty flowers and touching bible verses. Only then did the "how are you's" appear, slick and gleaming with care, with concern.

Mostly, with condescension.

"I'm fine, Mike."

She is so practiced at saying this by now, knows exactly how many teeth to show without overdoing it, and how to tilt her head to the right so she's looking just past their face.

Mike puts a hand on her shoulder and she sees his arm hair caught in the gold band of his watch. She wonders if it hurts, if it would hurt more if she pulled on it.

"You know I'm always here if you need me."

The squeeze becomes a rub and she steps back.

"Thank you, Mike."

Her voice is as harsh as she intended it to be, and the recent faculty-wide sexual harassment meeting pays off when Mike drops his arm and plants both hands in his pockets, jingling his keys and making the walkie-talkie bounce against his stomach.

"Let me know if there's anything I can do."

He smiles and it's just as ridiculous as when they were in high school, except now his teeth are wet and yellowing a little, and when she looks up she sees the beginning of a receding hairline.

As he lopes away, she notices one of his pant cuffs is stuck inside his sock, and she wonders when they all got so old.

…

Every time she looks at this front door, the peeling paint reminds her of the to-do list still hanging on the fridge, written in her father's masculine scrawl.

_Clean out gutters_

_WD-40 on porch swing_

_Prune trees—front and back_

_Paint exterior (color? Ask Bella.)_

The weight of her bag forces her to drop her keys, and she curses before finally stepping inside.

Without thinking, she takes the change out of her purse and lets it drop into the ancient glass water bottle, two more nickels and a dime in a sea of silver, copper, and gold.

_When did it get so full? _

Her eyes catch the fading words painted in nail polish on the side.

_"Bella's Adventures"_

This time, she stops, kneels, and allows her fingers to trace the clumsy 6-year-old scrawl. Closing her eyes, she remembers his strong hand covering her tiny one as they wrote her name together, how he coaxed her through the "B" that always gave her trouble, how he chuckled when she made her two looping l's so big because they were the one's she knew best, how she asked him to write "adventures" because she hadn't learned how to do a "v" or "t" yet, how he was the first person to put change in the bottle saying,

_"For my beautiful girl's beautiful life."_

Her feet slide out from beneath her, arms draping across the bottleneck as her forehead rests against the cold glass.

"I'm home, Dad," she whispers, knowing no one will answer.

And no one does.


	2. Chapter 2

_**All copyrights, trademarked items, or recognizable characters, plots, etc. mentioned herein belong to their respective owners. No copying or reproduction of this work is permitted without their express written authorization.**_

_**Audio-Visual Challenge—Musical Mastery: **__**"My Doorbell" by The White Stripes**_

* * *

"I'm not brave any more darling. I'm all broken. They've broken me."

-Ernest Hemingway, _A Farewell to Arms_

* * *

"Have a good day, everyone."

The bell has rung and Bella closes her book. She stands and awkwardly walks to the door, but they brush by her, shoes still squeaking from the afternoon rain.

"Have a good day, Rosalie."

The girl looks surprised that Bella is addressing her directly and gives her a curt nod before shoving her hands in her pockets and carefully maneuvering into the hallway.

Bella shuts the door and leans against it, thanking some unnamed entity that she got through the period without incident.

Her first few days as a substitute teacher were not so quiet. Mrs. Cope was a tough old broad who went through disciplinary referrals the way some teachers go through hall passes, writing students up for the smallest infraction. The kids called her "Psy-Cope" behind her back, even when Bella was in school, but would never dare say it to the woman's face. That's why she got the hard classes, the hard cases. Most students were terrified to cross Mrs. Cope.

When Bella attempted to emulate her, it was comical at best. Her first referral ended up as a three-point shot in the trash can next to her desk, courtesy of Tyler Crowley, who was repeating American Literature for the second time.

_"Mr. Crowley, I asked you to go to the office."_

She remembers how her voice shook, how the rest of the students laughed.

_"Miss Swan, I asked you to fuck off."_

This time the laughter roared, blood in her ears and a pit in her stomach, and she pulled her new cardigan tighter around her waist.

She can't remember when she decided to stop fighting, but over the next few weeks, they seemed to reach an unspoken agreement. No expectations from her. No trouble from them.

It was better this way. Easier for everyone.

She rests her head against the door for one more moment before walking to the board.

Someone stole her eraser again, so she uses her sleeve to wipe off the useless agenda she crafted this morning.

"Bella, I told you to stop doing that."

Her initial gasp is replaced with a smile for the uniformed gentleman now wheeling a creaky mop bucket through the doorway.

"Sorry, Billy."

His eyes crinkle and she can't help but smile wider. He always makes her feel like she's wearing pigtails and a popsicle-stained dress.

"How are you, girl?"

And she sees it, the way his eyes narrow and his mouth turns down before he catches himself. So her well-practiced pose shows the correct amount of teeth as she turns her head just so, looking to the right of his worn brown skin and salt-and-pepper braids.

"I'm fine, Billy."

"Bullshit."

He's staring at her, but she can't give in, and glances down toward the bucket.

"You know that I hate you cleaning up after me."

"And you know that this is my job. But that's not what we were talking about."

The silence is awkward, heavy, as she bends to pick up the wrappers and crumpled bits of paper her students left behind. She's halfway across the room when she hears him sigh and begin to help her.

"You have plans for tonight?"

She snorts.

"Sure. Mike's picking me up. We have a hot date."

"That guy still bothering you?"

"I'm pretty sure that's the only reason he hired me, Billy. It's not like I was qualified for the position."

"Hey now, you got that English degree."

Bella stops so short, she stumbles.

"I didn't finish, remember?"

She's turning toward the trash can when he takes her hands in his, and she cranes her neck to look anywhere but the face of the only man she's known as long as her father.

"I have to throw this stuff away, Billy." She turns to leave.

"You're still here, Bella." And his hands hold fast.

"I have to—"

"Listen to me!"

When she wrenches free, her small collection of trash tumbles to the floor and she must force herself to contain the sob sitting in the back of her throat. Her knees hit the linoleum floor hard, and tears threaten to obscure her view as she reaches around his legs for the tiny scraps.

"Bella," he sighs low and ancient.

"I don't need your pity." It's little more than a whisper, but it's all she can give.

She feels his resignation and it lifts her to her feet, pushes her toward her coat and bag and the open classroom door.

"I'll see you later, Billy. Sorry for everything."

"Bella—"

But she's already in the hallway. Already gone.

…

The school parking lot is empty save for Billy's old truck.

She has no idea how long she's been sitting here, engine running, windshield wipers swishing back and forth, the rain battering away at her windows and her knuckles white on the steering wheel.

She remembers hating the rain, showing up to school with stringy hair and foggy glasses, hating how it always soaked through her backpack and into her notes, and how she'd sit in the library and copy them carefully on to dry paper.

_"I hate the rain, Dad."_

_"Well you picked the wrong place to grow up, sweetheart."_

She remembers laughing and punching him in the arm, like she had any say in the matter.

_"There's a village on the coast of Southern France with a medieval castle. Simone de Beauvoir lived there. I'm thinking of adding it to my list."_

_"I don't know who the hell Simone Whatever is, but once you finish college, you can send me a postcard."_

Bella shifts the car into drive, thinks of best laid plans, and wonders if the book room has any copies of _Of Mice and Men_.


	3. Chapter 3

_**All copyrights, trademarked items, or recognizable characters, plots, etc. mentioned herein belong to their respective owners. No copying or reproduction of this work is permitted without their express written authorization.**_

_**Word Prompt: Duo**_

_**Plot Generator—Phrase Catch: Courage under fire.**_

_**I think both apply, in this**____**case.**_

* * *

"All great and precious things are lonely."

― John Steinbeck, _East of Eden_

* * *

Bella doesn't think Esme Platt ever stops moving. The woman is a constant flurry of activity, racing from the copy room to her class, darting from one pile of papers to the next. When she was only Mrs. Platt during Bella's senior year of high school, Bella marveled at the way she navigated from student to student, fielding questions and tossing back more. It was Mrs. Platt who encouraged Bella to major in English and wrote her letter of recommendation to the University of Washington. And it was Mrs. Platt who handed her the key to Shelley Cope's old room saying,

_"You can do this, Bella. Have some faith in yourself."_

Now Bella makes every attempt to avoid her: in the hallways, at faculty meetings.

Like Billy, Esme Platt has a way of looking right through her.

She's currently bent over the bottom drawer of a monstrous filing cabinet that Bella is sure has been here as long as the school itself.

"Excuse me, Mrs. Platt?"

The slight woman's face appears behind a curtain of graying brown curls and smiles, though she continues rifling through the folders and papers at her feet.

"Bella, how many times have I told you to call me Esme? You graduated almost five years ago."

_Has it really been that long?_

Bella's hands smooth invisible wrinkles on her skirt and she draws her cardigan tighter.

"I'm sorry. Esme."

Mrs. Platt closes the file drawer with a graceful kick and turns toward a relic of a desk, piled highs with essays and reports marked in the red pen and old-fashioned cursive Bella remembers all too well.

"I've been trying to track you down for a few weeks, but I always just seem to miss you. How are your classes?"

"They're fine, Mrs. Platt—I'm sorry, Esme."

"I told you sophomores aren't that bad."

"Yes."

The older woman's skeptical look is just as familiar.

"How about sixth period? I haven't seen Tyler Crowley in the office since Christmas break."

Bella feels blood rushing to her face, and hopes Esme will mistake it for pride instead of shame.

"It's been okay. We've sort of come to an understanding?"

"Statements, please, Bella. Unless you have an actual question."

"Sorry, Mrs. Platt," Bella shakes her head, and wonders if this woman will ever make her feel like anything other than a seventeen-year-old girl.

"That's actually why I came to talk to you."

"Oh?" She's already across the room, stacking worn copies of _The Great Gatsby_ on to a rolling cart.

"Yes." She crosses her arms again to stop fidgeting. "I was thinking of reading O_f Mice and Men_ with them."

The older woman stops mid-stack, closes her eyes and smiles.

"I love that book."

Bella can't help but smile, too. "I remember."

She returns to her task, dropping one of the paperbacks on the floor and bending effortlessly to retrieve it. Her brow furrows as she works. "It's part of the sophomore curriculum now, so I shouldn't approve your using it in American Lit."

"Oh, I see, I shouldn't have asked," Bella smooths her skirt again and turns to leave.

"Bella." Esme is smirking when she turns back.

"You're assuming those kids actually read it last year."

"Oh, of course." Bella feels her face drop until she realizes. "Oh!"

"There should be enough copies in the book room. Do you want me to show you where?"

"No, that's okay. I can get it." And she's turning to leave again.

"Bella, before you go—"

She should have walked faster.

"I really have been trying to track you down. I've been meaning to ask how you've been." Esme's once-furious place has slowed, her steps toward Bella soft, but deliberate. "I didn't get a chance to talk to you at the funeral."

Bella's fists flinch against her thighs. She needs to make up an excuse. An emergency or something. Something that requires her to leave. Now.

The older woman is close enough to touch her, but her hands only clasp in front of her chest.

"Bella, I'm so sorry—"

"Knock knock, Esme!"

Mike Newton's voice enters before he does and his salesman smile grows wider when he sees Bella."

"Mr. Newton, how many times have I told you to call me Mrs. Platt?"

Bella sees the sly wink from her newfound ally, but Newton's eyes are too busy roaming over Bella's legs to notice.

"Mr. Newton." And even he has to see the admonishment in her glare.

Mike clears his throat.

"We're getting a new student tomorrow. Junior. Transfer from out of state."

Mrs. Platt is moving again, re-organizing the papers on her desk while Bella walks slowly backward, away from Mike's suggestive glances and Esme's sympathetic gaze.

"Well my first period is full, but there's plenty of room in my third."

_Two more steps and you're there._

"Actually, from his record, this kid looks like sixth period material to me."

Bella stumbles over a wayward chair and yelps,

"My class?"

"Don't worry, Bella." Newton glides toward her, tucking his thumbs into his belt. Bella pictures him in a cowboy hat and chaps and has to look away so she won't laugh. "I won't let the new kid hurt you."

"Mr. Newton, we don't often get transfer students nearly four weeks into the semester. Do you have his file?"

Mike turns away from Bella and her eyes meet Esme's in silent gratitude while she flees the room, hearing only pieces of their conversation: "Kid's name is Cullen…some kind of disorder…Chicago."

Some fifteen minutes later when she's in her car, blowing into her hands and cursing herself for not bringing gloves, she lets her conversation with Esme replay in her mind.

It's the longest one she's had in months.

…

Charlie's library is small but loved and she lets her fingers run over the spines, cracked and discolored from too many nights spent open, facing downward on his chest as he fell asleep in his favorite chair.

She stops when she finds it, carefully pulling the small book from its place on the shelf, using her sleeve to wipe dust off the cover.

She brings the book to her nose and breathes in softly. Pipe tobacco and pine.

_"Read me a story, dad."_

_"Aren't college girls too old to have their fathers read to them?"_

_His voice was disapproving, but his eyes were smiles._

_"Yeah, but I'm not a college girl until tomorrow." _

She remembers the last time he sat here. Summer leaves had just started to change and he grumbled about paying a neighbor kid to rake the lawn while his nurse adjusted the oxygen tubes running to his nose. She remembers helping him up the stairs, how he tousled her hair when he said "good night." How he woke up screaming her name.

He never left the bed after that. And she rarely left his side.

Since then, his chair has sat in silent observance. An altar to losing seasons and unfinished crossword puzzles. Her legs curl beneath her and the worn upholstery scratches against her skin. She leans her head against the chair's back, still too short to reach the top.

The book's cover shows a blue sky and trees like the ones in her backyard. In the center are two men, one taller than then other, walking together toward some infinity.

She turns to the first yellowed page, and when she begins to read, it's her father's voice inside her head.

_A few miles south of Soledad, the Salinas River drops in close to the hillside bank and runs deep and green. The water is warm too, for it has slipped twinkling over the yellow sands in the sunlight before reaching the narrow pool…_

* * *

**_The last line is Steinbeck's, not mine._**

**_And no, Edward is not Bella's new student. I'm a teacher, and that's just gross._**

**_Much love to everyone who's read, followed, and reviewed so far. And keep in mind-when it concerns Edward and Bella, I'm a sucker for a happy ending._**


	4. Chapter 4

_**All copyrights, trademarked items, or recognizable characters, plots, etc. mentioned herein belong to their respective owners. No copying or reproduction of this work is permitted without their express written authorization.**_

_**prompt: wheelbarrow**_

* * *

"Happiness in intelligent people is the rarest thing I know."

-Ernest Hemingway

* * *

She busies herself with rearranging the small stack of books on her desk, trying to think about anything but the confrontation she knows is imminent.

Her sophomores gave her only mild groans when she said chapter one was due on Monday.

_"__Homework over the weekend, Miss Swan? You're getting all Psy-Cope on us."_

But they dutifully took then old paperbacks and accompanying packets, adding their names to the inside front cover before packing up to leave.

_"__Gross, I think I got Newton's old copy. Hope touching it doesn't turn me into a douche."_

Bella tried unsuccessfully to suppress a smile and reminded herself to give Lauren extra credit. She and her friends are the clichéd epitomes of young, popular, and mean, but they aren't stupid.

Sixth period would be a battle, however, and Bella lost her armor a long time ago.

When they finally shuffle in, they find their desks by muscle memory, faces glued to screens as they expertly avoid obstacles in their path.

Bella makes her way to the lectern and stands behind it, her hands shaking and clinging to its timeworn wooden sides. If they are going to sling arrows at her, at least she'll have a shield.

The late bell rings, and Rosalie Hale is the only one looking at her. Tyler Crowley's hood is up, sunglasses on, and Bella wonders if he's the only kid in Forks who owns a pair. The ones who aren't already asleep (she can't remember the last time she called them by name) continue to stare at their phones, counting the minutes, passing the time.

Bella knows the feeling well.

She tries to muster up something like courage, but she's out of practice, and her voice is small.

"I'd like to try something new today."

"You're gonna let us leave early?" Tyler and his cronies laugh.

"No."

"Then we're not interested," he says, reaching for his ipod to turn up the volume.

"Fuck off, Tyler," Rosalie snaps.

"Suck my dick, Hale."

"Like I could find it, asshole," Rosalie smirks as the class laughs, and she turns her attention back to Bella.

"Please, everyone settle down." Bella draws her hands into fists on the lectern and takes a shaky breath.

"Miss Swan?" Rosalie's concern once again surprises her into reality and Bella focuses on the girl in the front row.

"Yes, well, I thought we could read a novel."

Tyler throws his head back and laughs, slouching farther into his chair to cross his feet on the desk. His friends join in, and Bella wonders if it can be called mutiny if they were never on your side to begin with.

"What book?"

"It's called _Of Mice and Men_, and it's about—"

"We read that shit last year!"

"Like you read it, Crowley."

"Sure I did. There were two dudes on a farm with like wheelbarrows and shit."

"That's on the cover, idiot."

_What made you think you could do this, Bella?_

"Feet off the desk, Crowley!" She never thought hearing Mike Newton's voice would inspire anything other than revulsion, but when she sees him leaning against her doorway, arms crossed and eyes narrowed, she exhales in relief.

Tyler slowly returns his feet to the floor.

"Glasses off, too." Tyler smirks, but obeys, and Bella's stomach turns at the satisfaction on Mike's face.

"Need some more help here, Miss Swan?"

"We're fine, thank you, Mr. Newton."

"Of course." He's carrying a folder and smacks it against his open hand. "Got a special delivery for you. New student."

When Mike takes a step inside, he reveals a boy standing behind him, and Bella feels her eyes widen. Even slouching, the kid stands nearly a head above Mike, his broad shoulders cloaked in a worn gray hoodie which, coupled with his tennis shoes and backpack, are the only indicators of his youth. If she had seen him on the street, Bella would have guessed he was in college—and a linebacker for the school football team.

Tyler sits up straighter.

"Name is Emmett Cullen," Mike reads from the file. "I'd tell you more, but the kid hasn't said a thing all afternoon."

It's then that Bella looks at the boy's face: his eyes staring at the floor, his brand new shoes shifting weight from one foot to the other, his hands clutching the straps of his backpack.

Her heart instantly recognizes something kindred.

Fear.

"Why don't you introduce yourself to Miss Swan?" Newton demands, too loud, too abrasive, and Bella winces.

"Thank you, Mr. Newton. I think I can handle it from here."

Mike smirks. He has something in his teeth.

"I'm sure you can, Miss Swan."

Rosalie rolls her eyes as Newton trots away, and Bella finds herself silently thanking her for the third time that day.

She turns her attention to Emmett. His anxiety is palpable and she feels her own panic wane in an effort to make him feel at ease. Bella steps in front of the lectern toward the boy and his fascination with his shoes seems to grow stronger.

"Welcome, Emmett."

He nods, but says nothing.

"There's an empty seat here next to Rosalie." Bella's eyes plead with the girl to be nice, and she shrugs in response. It will have to do.

Emmett barely fits into his seat, and he has to wrestle with his backpack when he forgets to take it off.

"Dude, you play ball?" Tyler leans across his desk.

The new boy says nothing, opening his backpack to retrieve a never-used notebook and pencil case. Bella still doesn't know the color of his eyes.

"Dude, are you retarded or something?"

Emmett doesn't flinch.

"I'd watch it, Crowley. This kid could kick your ass worse than I did in 9th grade."

The class laughs and Tyler sinks into his chair. Emmett's glance toward Rosalie is fleeting, but Bella notices anyway.

"Let's just read, okay?"

Bella retreats to her desk and opens her book, looking up every so often to watch the new boy trace the word "English" over and over on the cover of his notebook.

When the bell is about to ring, they're already heading toward the door, and she decides to be a little bit brave.

"Please take a copy of _Of Mice and Men_ on your way out."

But most of them are already out the door, and the neat stack of books on her desk remains untouched. Even Rosalie glides by without taking one. Tyler picks up a copy and she can't even hide her shock, but he throws it in the trash can on his way out.

Emmett is the last to leave, carefully placing his notebook—still unused—into his backpack.

Something about him makes her want to apologize, so she does.

"I'm sorry. This class can be…difficult."

He doesn't look at her, and she busies herself with once again rearranging the already perfect stack of books.

"I don't really know what I'm doing."

It's only a whisper but she might as well have screamed it for as long as she's held it in, and as good as it feels to say it out loud. She doesn't even know if he heard her, but it doesn't matter. There's something about his quiet that makes her want to speak.

When she turns toward what she thinks is nobody, Emmett's still there. Standing at the doorway, looking down at the trashcan. He reaches toward it and when he stands back up, the book looks small and stupid in his hand.

"You don't need to take that. It was a silly idea."

He's staring at the cover, and when he looks up at her, she can't help but smile.

"I'll see you on Monday, Emmett."

Emmett doesn't smile back, but his hand holds the book tightly when he walks away.

His eyes are green.

… 

She really needs to go to the grocery store.

The frozen condolence casseroles lasted nearly two months in the freezer, but this is the last of Sue Clearwater's beef stew, and the fridge contains nothing more than a box of baking soda and a water filtering jug that Bella always forgets to use.

When she closes the freezer door, his to-do list falls from its magnet and onto the floor. She picks it up and turns it over, precious in her hands.

_Clean out gutters_

_WD-40 on porch swing_

She remembers him writing it, needing some control over his home when he had none over his body.

_"__I know you don't expect me to clean out those gutters."_

_"__Course not. Get that kid down the street to do it. Give him five bucks."_

_"__Five bucks? You might as well give him a quarter. Most people charge fifty or sixty dollars for jobs like that."_

She remembers how his thin face fell. Charlie's pension only covered so much, and Bella couldn't work when she had to be home with him.

_"__Hey,"_

She sat down next to him on the bed, her arm draping across his sharp shoulders.

_"__We'll figure something out. I'll call Billy."_

_"__Billy does too much already."_

_"__We'll figure it out."_

_"__Just promise me you won't touch your trip money."_

Of course, she'd thought about it. Bills took up space on every surface in their kitchen and had begun spilling over into other parts of the house. After Charlie was medicated enough to go to sleep, she would sat in the middle of the living room, surrounded by envelopes and papers, attempting to organize them into piles: pay soon, pay later, and toss. Every so often, she would glance at the glass bottle of change and wonder how much money they'd collected over the past fifteen years. How many of these bills it might pay.

_"__Bella."_

_"__Yes, Dad."_

_"__Promise me."_

She remembers his eyes, cloudy from medication and tight with worry_._

She could never disappoint him.

_"__I promise."_

_"__And promise me you won't get on any ladders."_

She remembers laughing.

_"__Now that's a promise I can keep."_

The gutters are still dangerously full of dead leaves, and the porch swing still squeaks. Billy could help, but then he'd want to talk.

She takes a pen from the cup next to the phone.

She writes "grocery shopping" underneath her father's shaky capital letters, and returns the list to its place on the refrigerator door.

She'll go tomorrow.


	5. Chapter 5

_**word prompt: instruction**_

_**All copyrights, trademarked items, or recognizable characters, plots, etc. mentioned herein belong to their respective owners. No copying or reproduction of this work is permitted without their express written authorization.**_

* * *

"Folks, I'm telling you,  
birthing is hard  
and dying is mean-  
so get yourself  
a little loving  
in between."

-Langston Hughes

* * *

She stands behind the lectern again, watching Emmett Cullen as his nervous fingers fidget with the pages of his book.

"I noticed none of you took a copy of _Of Mice and Men_. I'm assuming you all read it, then?" Her voice is braver than she feels.

"I told you that on Friday." Tyler rolls his eyes while he and his buddies lift their hoods in seemingly choreographed synchronicity.

"Then you can tell us what it's about, Tyler?" Her hands begin to shake so she digs her nails into her palms, but her voice, her voice is steady.

"I told you that, too. Are you retarded?"

Rosalie Hale begins to speak, but Bella cuts her off.

"Yes, Tyler. I believe you said it was 'about two dudes on a farm with like wheelbarrows and shit,' but I was hoping to get a summary from someone who actually read the pages inside the book, not just the cover."

The boy next to Tyler—Andrew? Aidan?—laughs and Tyler is out of his seat.

She flinches.

"You calling me stupid, bitch?"

_And where is all that courage now, Bella?_

There is a scrape of metal across linoleum as Emmett Cullen rises from his seat to glare at Tyler, larger and more terrifying than any eleventh grader has a right to be.

Tyler freezes. Bella breathes.

"Please take your seat, Mr. Crowley. And do not use that word in this class again, toward me or anyone else."

Crowley sits with great effort, finding his sunglasses in his pocket and putting them on his face.

When Bella looks at Emmett, she's nervous his eyes will still hold the same murderous gaze that frightened Tyler, but they are all concern and questioning.

_Are you okay?_

She nods sharply and tries to smile, hoping he can sense her gratitude. In seconds, Emmett Cullen is back in his seat and staring again at his book as though the past two minutes never happened.

Either he doesn't notice that the entire class is staring at him in various states of apprehension and awe, or he chooses to ignore it.

"So, who has read _Of Mice and Men_?"

Rosalie Hale comes back to reality, but Bella will remember how underneath the thick eyeliner and mascara, her blue eyes were thunderstruck when they gazed at Emmett Cullen.

"I've read it, Miss Swan."

"Thank you, Rosalie. Can you tell us what it's about?"

For all her nerve, Rosalie is timid, and she lets her blue-streaked hair fall between her and Emmett when she begins to speak.

"I don't remember everything. But I know there were two men. George and…Lennie, I think?"

"That's right." Bella smiles at the young girl, proud that her intelligence matches her daring. "Do you remember when it takes place?"

"It's during the Great Depression, so most people in America were poor. George and Lennie go to different farms looking for work, but they really want to buy a farm of their own."

"Are these dudes gay or something?" She thinks it's Tyler, but his head is down, earbuds firmly in place. It's the other one—Andrew.

Rosalie's voice is fierce.

"No, dumbass. They're friends."

"Sounds pretty gay to me."

Bella shakes her head.

"Rosalie's right, Andrew." And she's thankful when he doesn't correct her. "Lennie is mentally disabled, and George watches out for him. They take care of each other."

She waits for his reply, his retaliation, but he just stares at her.

_Go on, Bella. He's waiting for you._

Slowly, she steps around the lectern and leans against its side. She feels awkward and vulnerable in the line of fire, but he's waiting for her, so she continues.

"Have you ever had someone who looked out for you? Who took care of you?"

"Have you, Miss Swan?" Rosalie's voice is soft, and Bella is unprepared.

_"For my beautiful girl's beautiful life."_

_"__Send me a postcard."_

_"__Promise me you won't use your trip money."_

"I bet Newton wants to take care of her."

They laugh and someone gives Andrew a high-five while Tyler perks up, ready to join the fray. Chaos threatens on the horizon, so she breathes and steps forward, grounding her own two feet on the floor, clasping her hands in front of her waist.

"Yes, Rosalie. I had someone who looked out for me my entire life."

"Who?"

"My father."

She feels it instantly. The shift. Giggles die slowly and now all eyes are upon her. Even Tyler, whose smirk falls as he takes his sunglasses off.

Andrew speaks first.

"Your dad was the old chief of police, right?"

She nods. Her eyes burn. Throat closes.

"My pops talks about him sometimes. Why did he quit?"

"His back." She whispers, remembering trips to the chiropractor that became trips to the doctor that became trips to the oncologist.

"He died, right?"

"Jesus, Andrew."

The tears are there. Menacing. Daring her to continue.

"Yes." She coughs and closes her eyes, but her cheeks are already wet and she doesn't think she's ever felt so small, here in this stale room, alone with their questions.

She doesn't know how long she stands there, surrounded by silence, but when she finally opens her eyes, she finds herself looking directly at Emmett Cullen.

_Something about his quiet that makes her want to speak._

She breathes.

"Yes, he died. He died in December."

"Christmas?"

"Around then. Yes."

She feels their heads bow, hears their feet shuffle and their bodies move in creaky wooden seats.

Emmett Cullen is still looking at her.

"My pops says he was a good guy."

"He was." Bella smiles and begins to tell them about her father. Not the man trapped in old skin and sick bones, screaming his daughter's name. She tells them about her dad: the man who taught her how to throw a baseball and change her own oil. They laugh when she tells them the story of her prom date, how Charlie answered the door with his shotgun and the boy was so scared, he dropped her off before the sun went down.

"Sounds like my dad," says a red-headed girl in the back. Bella's never heard her voice before. Veronica? Victoria?

"Then you're lucky." And the girl's soft smile makes Bella's brighter.

She takes another step forward, this one larger. Deliberate.

"I'd like for you to write something."

"No offense, Miss Swan, but hell no." She decides she likes Andrew.

"If you don't want to write, you can start reading."

She takes a marker from the tray beneath the white board and scrawls words in cursive across the empty space.

"Rosalie, can you read that for me?"

Rosalie rolls her eyes, but does it anyway.

"Write about a person in your life who protects you. Why do they do it? Do you think you need their protection?"

Bella smiles in thanks and takes the stack of books from her desk, then walks through the aisles to pass them out, ignoring the sighs and groans that erupt on either side of her.

"I don't have paper."

"Borrow some from Andrew."

"He doesn't have any, either."

"Then you can start reading."

"This shit blows."

"Language, Tyler."

"This shit blows, Miss Swan."

She laughs and sits behind her desk, picking up her own copy of the book and finding the place where she left off last night.

When the bell rings, she watches them leave. Veronica/Victoria says "goodbye" and Andrew gives her a brief nod of his head as walks out the door. They don't turn in any papers, but they do carry their books in their hands.

It's silly how fast her heart beats, how good it feels. She looks down at her hands.

"I'm sorry about your dad."

Emmett Cullen's voice is young. Soft. A trembling tenor.

Bella can't hide her surprise at his words, at the sound of his voice, can't hide anything from him apparently, so she looks him dead in the eye when she says,

"Thank you."

It's because of his eyes, she thinks. The way they look at her without condescension, without pity.

_Something kindred._

Bella wants to ask him how a boy so young can understand such loss, but he is already out the door.

The paper he leaves on her desk is folded carefully into quarters.

She tucks it into her pocket and smiles.

…

Bella reads Emmett's paper over and over again. By the time she brushes her teeth and turns out the lights, she can recite his words from memory.

_My brother has protected me for as long as I can remember, and even before that. My mom says that when I was a baby, he would stand by my crib until I went to sleep. I guess I cried a lot or something. It snowed a lot where I grew up and I always forgot my hat so he always brought an extra one with him when we walked to school. I'm not always as grateful as I should be, though. When he bought me a bike this year, I asked him to let me go to school by myself. We got into a fight about it, but he finally said it was okay._

_I wish he wasn't scared all the time. But I guess that's what happens when you love someone._

_I'm scared for him, too. _

She falls asleep thinking of fear and love, and for the first time, not her own.

* * *

__

Sorry for the delay-it's the last week of school and things are a little/a lot crazy. But summer starts on Monday so updates should be pretty consistent after that.

_Thanks again for all the reviews-particularly the love for Emmett. He definitely deserves it. _

_Oh, and Edward's in the next chapter. Just saying._


	6. Chapter 6

_**prompt: audio-visual challenge (imagined image)**_

_**All copyrights, trademarked items, or recognizable characters, plots, etc. mentioned herein belong to their respective owners. No copying or reproduction of this work is permitted without their express written authorization.**_

* * *

I'm Nobody! Who are you? Are you – Nobody – too? -Emily Dickinson

* * *

Rosalie Hale tries for all the world to look like she's not waiting for Emmett Cullen, but she doesn't fool Bella.

The young girl lingers near Bella's desk, pretending to read the back of one of Bella's many travel books while Emmett, oblivious, is focused on packing up his thing.

"Have you gone here, Miss Swan?"

Bella looks up at Rosalie and the cover of the book in her hands.

"Prague? No, I've never been there. I always wanted to, though."

Rosalie nods and glances quickly back toward Emmett, who is having trouble with the zipper on his backpack.

"What about these other places?"

Rosalie surveys Bella's collection, gathered over the years from second-hand stores and birthday gifts from Charlie. The stack on her desk is only a small sampling: Prague, Shanghai, Paris, and Berlin.

Bella sighs.

"No."

Rosalie is confused and Bella forces a smile.

"Maybe one day."

Rosalie forces a smile, too.

Emmett is finally walking toward the door and Bella catches the young girl's eyes in secret knowing.

Rosalie's smile is real this time and she turns to the boy and stops him with a hand on his arm.

Emmett recoils, jumping backward and almost knocking over the desk behind him, and Rosalie gasps.

"I'm sorry, Emmett."

The boy nods his head furiously and opens his mouth to speak but there is only Bella's silence and Rosalie's shaky breaths. Then, the sound of fast footsteps as Emmett runs out of view.

"Rosalie—"

But the girl's face is suddenly stone and she pulls the too-long sleeves of her sweatshirt over her hands.

"Bye, Miss Swan."

The rubber soles of her boots are thick and they squeak as she turns to follow Emmett Cullen, then stops, and walks away in the other direction.

Bella exhales and pulls open the top drawer of her desk to find the folded and re-folded piece of binder paper she already knows by heart.

She opens it carefully and tries to smooth the now-worn creases with her hand.

_I wish he wasn't scared all the time._

Bella stares at his handwriting and feels like she's playing detective.

Her elbows lean on the desk and she holds her head in her hands, searching the page for clues to a mystery she can't even name.

"What happened to you, Emmett Cullen?"

But she's only whispering to an empty room.

…

The folder is olive green and there are at least three paper labels beneath the one that says "Cullen, Emmett."

She sits at the kitchen counter and tries to forget the way Mike Newton's eyes lit up when she walked into his office, and how quickly they turned to disappointment when she asked for the new boy's file.

_"__You sure that's all you want, Miss Swan?"_

It almost makes her gag again, so she shoves a spoonful of cereal into her mouth and moans a little at the taste of sugar and sweet. She feels ridiculous, but Frosted Flakes were always her favorite, and a luxury she hadn't allowed herself since Charlie got sick.

Seeing the bright blue box peeking out of the groceries in her cart had given her way more of a thrill than it should have.

She opens the folder, unsure of what to expect, and finds only two sheets of paper: an enrollment form for Forks High School and a note on Children's Hospital of Chicago letterhead indicating that Emmett Cullen passed a TB test. Aside from the fact that it's from Chicago, the hospital note provides little information, so she picks up the enrollment form and reads.

_Name: Emmett Cullen_

_Date of Birth: March 15, 1998_

_Place of Birth: Northwestern Memorial Hospital, Chicago, IL_

_Legal Guardian: Edward Cullen_

_Address: 216 Calawah Way Forks, WA 98331_

_Phone Number: 312-555-3675_

_Emergency Contact: Edward Cullen_

_Phone Number: Same as above_

_Previous School: Awaiting Transcripts _

_Educational Information: Awaiting Transcriots & Cum. File_

Her eyes dart between the telephone siting next to her on the counter and the phone number printed on the form in her hand. She looks at the clock above the stove.

7:00 p.m.

Kind of late for a teacher to call home. Maybe too late.

But she remembers Emmett's eyes as they looked at Rosalie in terror, the way his arm moved instantly to shield his face, the way he seemed desperate to speak but could not.

_I wish he wasn't scared all the time. But I guess that's what happens when you love someone._

She picks up the phone and dials, closing her eyes like it will protect her from any potential humiliation.

It rings six times and she's about to hang up when she hears a click and some sort of muffled music playing in the background.

"Hello?"

Mr. Cullen's voice is soft like Emmett's, but deeper. The baritone to Emmett's tenor.

"Hello?" It's louder now, and a little pissed off.

_Speak, Bella._

"Hi!" She says too brightly, and rolls her eyes at herself before gathering some courage from wherever it fled to.

"Who is this?" He sounds confused. Impatient.

"This is Bella Swan."

She begins pacing the space between her kitchen counter and living room coffee table, hoping the added movement will calm her nerves.

"Who the hell are you?" Definitely impatient.

She smacks her forehead with her hand and closes her eyes tighter.

"Sorry, yes, I'm Emmett Cullen's English teacher."

She's not sure why she's yelling; it's either because of the faint music she keeps hearing on the other end, or because she's completely and utterly petrified.

He says nothing. It's definitely the second one.

"I'm from Forks High School?" she squeaks. _Squeaks_.

The silence remains, but it sounds like he's moving. She can hear voices and other music—maybe he's in a bar? Or at a party? She's thinking about how irresponsible that is when she here's the sound of a door open and closing.

"Sorry, I'm here. It's Miss Swan, right? You said you're from Forks High School?"

She exhales.

"Yes, I'm Emmett's teacher. Is this his father, Edward Cullen?"

She feels it. The shift. His voice is colder now. More distant.

"No."

"No? But I thought –"

Bella walks back toward her counter and scans the file again for some sort if clue, maybe something she missed the first-

"I'm Edward Cullen, but Emmett's not my son."

She looks away from the file and her eyes catch the folded paper sitting on her coffee table. Oh.

"Oh!" she yelps, "You must be the brother!"

"Yeah, that's me." He snaps. "Is there a problem or something?"

She hears knocking on his end and his voice is muffled, like he's covering the phone with his hand when he yells "In a minute!"

"Listen, I'm sorry to call so late—"

"Yeah, well, I'm still trying to figure out why you're calling at all."

"Oh, right," she breathes. "I wanted to talk to you about Emmett."

"Is he in trouble or something?"

"No! He's not—"

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. Yes, I'm positive." She walks to the coffee table and picks up the paper. "I wanted to talk to you about some possible alternatives for Emmett—"

"Look, lady, you're not putting him in Special Ed. I am so sick of this shit—"

She shakes her head like he can see her and sits on the couch.

"No! You—"

The knocking is louder this time, and she hears him groan.

"Look, I have to go. I'll come down there tomorrow and you can say whatever you have to say to me and my brother."

In all the scenarios she had planned inside her head, never once did he demand to meet her in person.

"Okay, uhh, is 3:00 okay?"

"Fine."

And he's gone.

Bella holds her head in her hands and tries to catch her breath. Her eyes fall on the paper in front of her.

_I'm scared for him, too. _

She tries to imagine anyone being scared for Edward Cullen as his cold and angry voice reverberates inside her head.

* * *

_I am overwhelmed by the amount of reviews for this story-it's so rad to hear that you love these characters as much as I do._

_In the next chapter: Edward's face!_


	7. Chapter 7

**_Word Prompt: _****_Motor_**

**_All copyrights, trademarked items, or recognizable characters, plots, etc. mentioned herein belong to their respective owners. No copying or reproduction of this work is permitted without their express written authorization._**

**_I feel the need to warn you that Edward will not be making an appearance in this chapter. For those of you who are interested or had concerns about the last chapter, there is an embarrassingly long A/N at the bottom _**

* * *

"Not till we are completely lost or turned around... do we begin to find ourselves."

-Henry David Thoreau

* * *

"You called his guardian last night?"

Every time she recalls her conversation with Edward Cullen, she feels foolish and unsteady and wants to crawl outside her skin.

"Yes."

They may be standing in a staff lounge-turned copy room, but Esme Platt's disapproval feels just as awful did in Bella's twelfth grade class.

"Did something happen?"

_His shoes as his feet rocked back and forth._

_His hand as it held the book tight._

_His eyes when Tyler called her a bitch._

_His face when Rosalie touched his arm._

"Nothing in particular, no."

Esme's disapproval turns to doubt, but it's interrupted when the copier jams and she curses.

"I think something has happened to him, though. Maybe before he came here."

The older woman smiles in sympathy, but turns her attention back to the copier, opening and closing each of the drawers and continuing to curse in frustration.

"Bella, if you're worried this student has emotional or developmental problems, you need to talk to the school psychologist. She's here on Fridays. I can send her an e-mail—"

"Thank you, Mrs. Platt, but I don't think it's that serious."

"So why did you call his guardian?"

_Something kindred._

_What happened to you, Emmett Cullen?_

"You said you had room in your third period. I don't think he should stay in sixth."

Esme finally frees the jammed sheet of paper, and the machine's motor whirs to life. She turns to Bella.

"Do you care about this kid?"

"Yes." And even she's surprised by how quickly the word leaves her mouth.

Esme smiles and places her hand on the young girl's shoulder.

"Then you should be his teacher, Bella."

"But—"

She's interrupted by the first period bell. Esme curses again and grabs her papers from the copy tray, walking briskly toward the door and talking to Bella over her shoulder.

She can do nothing but follow.

"You said you're meeting with the guardian at 3:00?"

"Yes." Bella walks faster to keep up with Esme, dodging trashcans and students with umbrellas until they're at her door.

"I have to go to the district office today, but if you need anything, call me."

Bella wants to tell her how angry he sounded, but she can already see Esme's are-you-kidding-me eyes, and she's had enough of them for one morning.

She turns to walk away, when Esme's voice stops her.

"Bella."

"Yes, Mrs. Platt?"

Esme rolls her eyes, but smiles.

"You're already better at this than you think."

The older woman winks before turning toward her class.

Bella's instinct is to doubt her, so she doesn't notice that when she walks down the hall, it's slower, straighter, and more self-assured than before.

* * *

A/N: There seemed to be some concern about Bella's behavior in the last chapter, and after re-reading it a few times, I think that concern was completely justified. She really has no business calling Edward without first going through proper channels, and she definitely acted, as one reviewer put it, like she had never made a phone call before. In my head, these things were okay because 1. Bella really does have no idea what she's doing as a teacher and 2. Bella's struggle to step outside the tiny comfort zone she's created for herself will sometimes result in awkwardness. But what's in my head can't get on to the page without me (funny-I tell my students that all the time), so I get why some readers were worried that Bella was too weak and perhaps regressing from the strides she has made so far. I just want to say that I, too, can't stand a weak Bella-or at least, a weak Bella who is only weak so that she can be "saved" by Edward. But I think our Bella is a little different. And while there will be a step back for every two steps forward, I promise that this is a story about Bella reclaiming herself, much more than it is a story about her claiming a boyfriend.

The point of my ridiculously long note is this: the chapter you just read never existed in my original outline, but it now feels entirely necessary, and I never would have realized that without your enlightenment and encouragement. I think I got way too excited for Edward to show up and so pushed things along a bit too hastily.

So, thank you. For slowing me down. For giving Bella a little bit of time and space to grow.

I've never written a multi-chaptered fic before, and I completely suck at leaving reviews, so I had no idea how much they help in developing a story. It's kind of incredible.

Edward and his face will be with us next time. For reals.


	8. Chapter 8

**_Word Prompt: _****_Nostalgic_**

**_All copyrights, trademarked items, or recognizable characters, plots, etc. mentioned herein belong to their respective owners. No copying or reproduction of this work is permitted without their express written authorization._**

* * *

"It is to the credit of human nature, that, except where its selfishness is brought into play, it loves more readily than it hates. Hatred, by a gradual and quiet process, will even be transformed to love, unless the change be impeded by a continually new irritation of the original feeling of hostility."

-Nathaniel Hawthorne, _The Scarlet Letter_

* * *

Emmett Cullen has not looked up from his notebook in nearly an hour, his pen mindlessly tracing the same doodles he started drawing at the beginning of the period, when Rosalie Hale walked in to class and sat as far away from him as she possibly could.

Bella is surprised he hasn't run out of ink.

She steals a glace at the clock. 2:57.

It was 2:56 the last time she checked, and 2:54 the time before that.

During class, she thought the clock could not move more slowly. She was wrong.

While her sixth period students had all taken books, a few questions from Bella firmly established that they had yet to open them. Even Rosalie refused to offer any answers, though Bella suspected that had less to do with the girl's knowledge of Steinbeck, and much more to do with the boy currently sitting across from her.

She made it a silent reading period, but the lines in her book only blurred together, letters and spaces twisting and reforming into the bitter words of Edward Cullen.

_"Is there a problem or something?"_

_"__I am so sick of this shit—"_

_"__I'm coming down there tomorrow"_

Her right knee bounces beneath one of the student desks she placed in a sort-of circle. The classroom equivalent of a conference table.

2:58.

She looks down and exhales, allowing her fingers to run along the desk's dull wooden surface, tracing lines and grooves from years of passive teenage rebellion.

_Class of '08 Bitches!_

_Metallica_

_NW + AR_

_Newton Sucks Dick_

This one makes her laugh, and she remembers Jessica Stanley carving similar words into a similar desk not so long ago.

In fact, this might be Jessica's old desk.

Her quiet outburst makes Emmett look up, and Bella gives him a tight smile. He looks frightened and tired, and she wants to ask him so many questions.

_Why don't you speak?_

_Where are your parents?_

_Is your brother as terrifying in person as he is on the phone?_

Instead she whispers, "Are you okay?"

He responds by looking back down at his notebook, though this time his pen remains motionless.

When he looks up again, it's at the sound of the classroom door opening.

Bella has had a lot of time to picture Edward Cullen in her mind, and has spent most of last night and today doing just that.

_He's middle-aged, married, taking care of the younger brother who came along as a surprise to parents who thought they were too old for more children._

_He looks just like Emmett, maybe even taller, with tattoos and piercings to match his attitude._

_He's shorter, with a belly and sense of entitlement like Mike Newton, frustrated and resentful from having to support a kid that's not even his._

So she is unprepared for the man that currently stands in her doorway.

Edward Cullen is young, somewhere around her own age, Bella thinks. Like his brother, he wears a gray hoodie and holds the ends of his sleeves in his hands. If he's shorter than Emmett, it's not by much, but unlike his brother, Edward is lanky and lean. Hard lines and angles to Emmett's broad strokes.

He is handsome in the way that handsome used to mean. Like he stepped out of one of the period dramas that Bella watches on PBS and was handed jeans and a t-shirt so he could fit in with everyone else.

His hair: lighter. More red than brown, but darkened from the rain.

His skin: pale.

His eyes: just as green, but the dark circles beneath them are more pronounced.

And more suspicious.

"You're not the teacher, are you?"

She tries to smile, but it feels forced.

"Yes, I'm Bella Swan. Thanks for—"

She attempts to stand to shake his hand, but he's already crossing the room to sit next to Emmett, who is now furiously coloring shapes and figures that were filled in a while ago.

"Hey, Em. You good?"

Edward's eyes and voice soften when he talks to his brother, and the small nod that Emmett grants him makes Bella smile.

Until Edward turns his gaze back to her, all signs of friendliness gone.

"Are you old enough to teach?"

Bella smooths her hand on her shaking knee.

"I'm a substitute teacher."

He scoffs.

"When's the real teacher coming back?"

"She's not coming back. I'm sorry."

When he leans toward her, she smells rain and dryer sheets.

"So what the hell is a substitute teacher doing calling me about my brother? Are you even qualified to do that?"

This, she is prepared for.

"I want to apologize for that. I was concerned about Emmett, but I realize that my phone call was unprofessional."

The look of worry is instantaneous and he turns toward his brother.

"Why are you concerned about Emmett? He just got here."

Thankful he's no longer looking at her, she continues her well-practiced speech, albeit shakily.

"In the short time Emmett has been in my class, he's proved himself to be a capable student. I called because I wondered if he would be better off in a different English class."

Emmett looks up so quickly, he drops his pen on the floor. Edward scoots down in his chair to retrieve it, and his foot accidently brushes against Bella's.

"Sorry," they say at the same time, but Bella is too focused on Emmett's face to enjoy Edward's moment of civility.

Bella has seen Emmett Cullen's eyes only a handful of times, so she remembers each one: terrified, terrifying, and apologetic.

These eyes are new.

Defeated.

Edward sees them too, and after quietly returning Emmett's pen to his desk, he slowly places his arm on the back of his brother's chair.

The boy glances at his brother's hand as it moves toward him, but he does not recoil. He doesn't do anything except pick up his pen and return to his notebook.

"Why does he need to move classes?"

Emmett's scribbles are faster.

"Sixth period can be challenging."

"What, like you think it's too advanced for him?" The voice on the phone is back, and Bella winces. "My brother is smart."

"Mr. Cullen, I know—"

"You don't know shit. You want to pawn him off on some fucking resource class. If you think I'm gonna let that happen again, you—"

"Listen to me!" She slams her hand on the desk at the same time that Emmett's furious sketching tears a hole in his paper.

When she opens her eyes, Edward Cullen looks as shocked as she feels.

She breathes.

"I'm sorry."

He breathes, too, but says nothing.

"I don't mean that sixth period is too challenging for Emmett. I mean that many of the students in the class are not at his level."

Edward leans forward to speak, but she does not allow it.

"I think Emmett would be better off with students who care."

Edward's arm tightens on his brother's chair. He smirks.

"Maybe he'd better off with a teacher who cares."

She wants to disagree, to fight, to find the brave girl who stood up to this man just seconds ago.

But she can only agree with him, and it makes her eyes blur.

"You're right, Mr. Cullen. I'm sorry." She's talking quickly now and trying to stand, desperate to leave this place and his presence before the tears come and he sees just how big a fool she really is. "I'll talk to the department chair and see about moving him to—"

"I want to stay with Miss Swan."

Emmett Cullen's voice is thick. Unpracticed.

Edward looks at his brother with something like awe.

"You sure, Em?"

Emmett only nods, then turns toward Bella, who is awkwardly standing half out of her seat.

This time, his voice is timid.

"Can I please stay here?"

Edward's overly confident smirk is now a distant memory as his eyes settle on Bella in confusion and not a little bit of wonder.

Bella holds Emmett's gaze as she slowly returns to her seat and gingerly places her hands on the boy's desk.

When she smiles, it's like the easiest thing she's ever done.

"Of course you can stay, Emmett."

These eyes are new, too.

Happy.

She decides she likes them best.

…

When Bella curls up in her father's chair, she tries to read about Lennie and the puppy, but it's too melancholy for her mood.

She remembers Edward taking Emmett's notebook as they both stood up to leave and the way his "thank you" sounded more like "I'm sorry." She remembers the dazed silence in which the two men helped her to move both desks back in place. She remembers the man's hand on his brother's back as he guided him out of the classroom before disappearing into the hallway.

She tries to read, but the lines on the page blur together, letters and spaces twisting and reforming into Edward Cullen's bewildered eyes.

The way they looked back at her.

And how they lingered.

* * *

_A/N: Holy hell, you guys. Over 100 reviews? Craziness._

_Thanks to all of you for the love and encouragement. I hope Edward's entrance was everything you imagined. And can I just say that figuring out a "new" way to introduce Edward has been the most difficult part of writing this thing so far? At this point, i feel like we can just say "She looks up, and Edward is standing there. He looks like Edward."_

_See you tomorrow!_

_Update: Just to clarify-the meeting took place after class. My awesome time references were obviously not as awesome as I planned. I would never want anyone to think that they had this discussion in front of other students, so thanks to everyone who pointed it out!_


	9. Chapter 9

_**There were prompts today, but I just wasn't feeling them.**_

_**All copyrights, trademarked items, or recognizable characters, plots, etc. mentioned herein belong to their respective owners. No copying or reproduction of this work is permitted without their express written authorization.**_

* * *

"I think us here to wonder, myself. To wonder. To ask. And that in wondering bout the big things and asking bout the big things, you learn about the little ones, almost by accident. But you never know nothing more about the big things than you start out with. The more I wonder, the more I love."

-Alice Walker, _The Color Purple_

* * *

Today, she stands by the door as they leave and practices their names.

"Have a good day, Victoria."

The girl looks confused but smiles and says "You too, Miss Swan."

"Bye, Andrew. Bye, Nathan."

They look up from their phones to give an all-purpose boy nod in her general direction.

"Have a good day, Tyler."

"I always do, Swannie."

Tyler laughs before rushing between his two friends, dropping his skateboard onto the floor and coasting down the hall. He makes it about ten feet before Bella hears Newton yell "Walk your board, Crowley!"

She looks at the stack of papers on her desk and smiles.

No movies will be made about the events that transpired in this room during the previous hour. Lives were not changed. Miracles were not performed. In fact, anyone walking by her door would have thought the scene entirely ordinary: a group of students, books open on their desks, responding to questions on a worksheet.

But Bella glows with triumph, and those crumpled papers covered in words and doodles might as well be her victory banner.

Students continue to amble out of the room, and she looks each one in the eye, matching faces with the names she spent an hour last night studying. Some are suspicious; other seem appreciative.

Emmett Cullen begins to smile, but it disappears when Rosalie Hale brushes past him in a hurry, her attention anywhere else.

He can only watch her leave.

"Emmett."

His eyes are still on the emptying hallway, but Bella knows he's listening.

"You should talk to her."

When his eyes whirl toward hers, they are horrified.

He tries to speak, but his head just shakes back and forth.

"Emmett, it's okay." She doesn't think when she places his hand on her arm, and she's about to pull it away and apologize when she hears his breathing slow.

He looks at her hand, ridiculously small near his shoulder, and then he looks at her.

Another victory.

"You know, you're a really good writer."

He exhales.

"No, I'm not."

This time, she tries not to look surprised at the sound of his voice.

"Yes, you are."

Bella crosses her arms in front of her chest, and stands directly in front of this broken boy, willing him to look her in the eye.

He does.

She smiles.

"Girls love letters."

Emmett looks confused at first, but when his eyes flash to the place where Rosalie Hale long disappeared to, Bella sees it.

Determination.

And when he walks away from her, he is a warrior off to battle.

Victory number three.

… 

Bella hums while she moves through the kitchen, opening cupboards until she finds the bottle of wine she purchased on a whim on her last trip to the grocery store.

A celebration is in order.

But the rest of the contents of her cupboard and fridge leave her uninspired. Another bowl of frosted flakes is no match for how good she feels, so she pulls open the long forgotten drawer of take-out menus.

Italian, she thinks.

Bella places her order and pours a glass of wine before settling into Charlie's chair and turning on the television.

She finds a hospital drama she remembers watching before she couldn't stand watching anything involving hospitals, but the characters are new and unfamiliar and she feels a little lost.

PBS it is.

She's contemplating saving money to get cable when the doorbell rings.

And maybe it's because he's been on the periphery of her mind for two days, but when she opens the door to find Edward Cullen standing on her porch, holding a plastic bag and looking down at a receipt, she feels the blood rush to her cheeks.

"I have a delivery from—"

When he sees her, he stops.

"It's you."

But it's like he didn't mean to say it out loud, because he closes his eyes and shakes his head.

"Sorry—you live here?"

She nods.

"I do. I live here."

_Good job, Bella._

His smirk is mocking, but it's a lot nicer to look at than the angry one.

"Well, here's your food, Miss Swan."

She's trying to tell him that he can call her Bella, but apparently doing that and taking the bag from his hands is too difficult a task, especially when his fingers brush against hers, because she almost drops her dinner and he has to scramble to keep it from falling.

"Thank you."

_Definitely too much wine._

_You had one glass._

The way he shifts his feet back and forth reminds her of Emmett, but the way he cradles the back of his neck with his hand, awkward and arrogant all at once, is entirely Edward Cullen.

It makes her smile.

And wonder why he's still here.

Perhaps he feels the need to berate her again, but she won't allow it—not tonight—and she holds her head higher in preparation for his attack.

"So I need—"

"Look, if you're going to yell at me again, I—"

"What?"

"What?"

He holds out his hands. Palms up. Defensive.

"I'm not going to yell at you. I just—"

"You just what?"

Her arms cross as she attempts to look as intimidating as possible while holding a large order of chicken parmesan.

"I just need the money. For your food?"

"Shit!" She nearly drops the bag again and frantically reaches in her back pocket. "I'm so sorry!"

He's laughing at her when he takes the twenty dollar bill, and reaches for his own pocket.

"Let me get your change."

"That's not necessary—"

"Yes, it is."

"But your tip—"

He stops in the middle of unfolding his wallet.

He's not laughing anymore.

"I'm not taking a tip from you, Miss Swan."

And he won't. She can tell he won't.

So she nods.

"Okay. But you need to call me Bella."

He smiles.

"Okay. Bella."

She's never liked her name, always thought it was too frilly for a skinny thing in jeans and glasses, and the other girls agreed.

But she likes the way it sounds when he says it.

When she takes the folded singles from his hand, he holds on to them.

"I'm sorry for how I acted on the phone, and at the meeting yesterday."

She wonders if it's a Cullen trait: eyes pooled in green and sincerity.

"Thank you."

He's still holding on, and she finds herself doing the same.

"I was having a bad night at work."

"At the restaurant?"

"No." And the sincerity mixes with shame. "At my other job."

She tries to joke.

"Geez, how many jobs do you have?"

It's not funny.

"Three."

She tries to apologize, but he's already putting his wallet in his pocket and turning toward the car still idling in front of her house. His shoulders are hunched, hands in his pockets, and she feels graceless and dumb with her celebratory dinner ridiculous in her hands.

_How many victories have you had today, Edward Cullen?_

"Wait!" she yells, too loud. Too desperate.

"I have another delivery," he yells, but he's stopping on the sidewalk and she takes that as a good sign.

She flies to her purse on the counter and dumps it out, hands searching until they find the worn piece of binder paper, folded in to quarters.

When she runs to him, she trips on the last step and ends up closer than she intended.

"This is for you."

He rolls his eyes and turns away from her.

"I told you I don't need a tip."

"It's not a tip!"

It's bitter January outside, so she thinks his arm shouldn't be so warm beneath her hand.

He's looking at the place where they meet when she holds the paper up. Her white flag. Her truce.

"What's this?"

"Emmett wrote it."

There is surprise on his face, and when he takes the paper from her hand and holds it like some precious thing, she knows she was right to do this.

"I don't even remember the last time he wrote something." But it's more to himself than to her.

She feels the chill through the thin material of her sweater and pulls it tighter around her.

"It's good."

He nods, still staring at the object in his hand.

"It's about you."

It must be another Cullen trait: smiles that light her up inside, even in the winter cold.

The warmth of her house makes goose bumps on her skin as she walks to the glass bottle, and lets the dollar bills fall inside it.

She smiles and thinks,

"I had a good day, Dad."

Then, she says it out loud.

* * *

_A/N: I continue to be overwhelmed by the love for this story. Thank you._


	10. Chapter 10

"We travel together," said George coldly.

**_Word Prompt: _****_Wish list_**

**_All copyrights, trademarked items, or recognizable characters, plots, etc. mentioned herein belong to their respective owners. No copying or reproduction of this work is permitted without their express written authorization._**

* * *

"We travel together," said George coldly.

"Oh, so it's that way."

George was tense, and motionless. "Yeah, it's that way."

-John Steinbeck, _Of Mice and Men_

* * *

They're less confused this time when she stands by the door to tell them good-bye. And she counts six who tell her to have a good day, too.

But today she can't help but watch Rosalie Hale, who dyed her hair jet black last night, as she packs her bag roughly and makes her way to the door.

Bella's about to say something to her when she hears it, soft and deafening in the now quiet classroom.

"Rosalie."

The girl stops, a deer in headlights facing Bella, struck dumb by the voice of the boy who stands behind her.

Rosalie Hale turns toward Emmett Cullen, slowly, and Bella can count time with the way his feet shift back and forth.

She tries to stifle her smile by clearing her throat and rushes,

"I have to go talk to Mrs. Platt about something."

They say nothing, and for the first time in a long time, she doesn't mind being ignored.

Her footsteps echo in the hallway, and she tries to waste time productively by picking up discarded papers that students left behind in their mad rush to end the day.

"If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times."

Billy Black stands in front of her, holding a wastepaper basket, his smile genuine but tentative.

She grins.

"Hi, Billy."

"Hi, girl."

He doesn't ask her how she is, and when she recalls their last conversation, she realizes she can't blame him.

"How are you?"

He looks a little startled, but recovers quickly.

"I'm doing okay, Bella. How about you?"

His eyes are wary as she walks toward him, placing her small collection of papers in the trash can before taking it from his grasp.

When Bella sets the bin on the floor, he is about to protest, but stops when she takes his hand in hers.

Billy's hands are rough and familiar, calloused from years of hard work and baiting fish hooks with her father.

She looks him in the eye and smiles so he knows it's real.

"I'm okay."

"Okay" is not "fine."

Okay is new. Better.

He nods, slow and understanding.

Bella squeezes his hand once and turns on her heel when Emmett Cullen strides past her, nearly running toward the parking lot.

She starts to walk after him when she hears footsteps, softer, coming out of her classroom.

Rosalie Hale ambles toward them, her newly black hair falling around her face as she reads the letter held tightly in her hands.

Bella beams.

"Bye, Rosalie."

The girl nods but continues her aimless course toward the back exit, her lips moving, her smile brightening, with every word she reads.

…

Bella lets her car idle and waits for the heater kick in, hitting the radio until she hears the fuzzy strains of Forks' only music station. The rain is heavier today than it's been in awhile, and she reminds herself (again) to get someone to clean the gutters.

She's using her coat sleeve to wipe off her windshield when she sees him, standing under the building overhang, hands in his pockets, head bent low.

Her truck lurches as she puts it in drive, then rumbles to a stop as she pulls in front of him and rolls down her passenger side window.

"Emmett!"

He's motionless and she's about to get out of the car when she sees the telltale white cords snaking out of his jacket and into his ears.

She honks, and he startles to life, nearly smiling when he sees her.

"What are you still doing here?"

He's speaking but she can't hear him over the rain and her radio.

"Hold on!"

Emmett looks confused as she reverses and not a little frightened as she pulls forward and turns onto the walkway so the passenger side of her truck sits under the overhang.

She scoots over, wiping down the seat with her pants and her sleeve, and nearly tumbling out the door and onto the pavement in front of him.

"Sorry about that."

When Emmett Cullen towers over her, the width of his body double her own, it's hard to imagine that he's Edward's brother.

But when his eyes are alight and his face is scrunched up from trying not to laugh at her, it's hard to imagine that he's anyone else.

"You waiting for someone?"

He nods.

"Your brother?"

He nods again, and squeezes the straps of his backpack a little tighter.

"Mind if I wait with you?"

He steps slowly to the side and she takes it as an invitation to lean next to him against the wall.

The sound of the rain mixes with the music coming from her car, and when it changes to a song from slumber parties and middle school dances, she starts to hum along.

She's expecting him this time, so she shouldn't feel that flutter in her stomach, that sting in her skin when she sees Edward Cullen.

But she does.

He has one umbrella above him, fighting against the wind, and holds another underneath his arm. His black pants are soaked to the knee and his tennis shoes were a lost cause a while ago.

_He must be cold._

His eyes are hard, his mouth set in a thin line, and she already misses the softness and the smile he allowed her the night before.

"Sorry, Em. Car wouldn't start."

"Mine does that all the time."

Her intentions are good, but her words are too eager, and he grimaces.

"Thanks for staying. You didn't have to do that."

"It's not a big deal."

She smiles and hopes it will be catching, but he's already turned toward Emmett and fussing with the snap on his umbrella.

"I can give you a ride."

"We're fine."

His fingers are white with cold and refusing to cooperate.

"Edward—"

"I said we're fine!"

He finally gets the umbrella open, but as the handle clicks into place, a gust of wind blows it inside-out and out of Edward's hand.

"Fuck!"

He's turning toward the fallen object, but Emmett is already there, picking it up and bending the metal ribs back into place.

"Edward—"

Her voice is soft and his sleeve is cold beneath her hand. When he looks at her, his eyes are sad and young.

"Let me give you a ride home."

He sighs.

"Please."

She feels the muscles in his forearm flex against her fingers, and it reminds her that she can probably let go.

She turns toward her truck.

"This is me."

"Yeah. I figured."

She rolls her eyes but smiles to see his smirk return to its rightful place.

She climbs in through the passenger side and he follows, but it's not until Emmett steps in behind him that she realizes just how little she thought this through.

Emmett takes up nearly half of the bench seat, forcing the side of Edward's body to rest firmly against her own.

_Rain and dryer sheets…and something else._

"Seatbelts!" she yelps, and Edward chuckles as he pulls off his hood.

She shrugs.

"My dad was a cop."

Emmett's attempts to grab the seatbelt behind him are nearly comical, and she starts to giggle until Edward lifts himself off the seat and his thigh brushes against her arm.

"Sorry," he grunts, finally finding the middle seatbelt and sitting back down to fasten it.

She nods her head and turns the key and decides to focus on the way her windshield wipers move across the glass. But the first time she has to turn the wheel, their arms are too close together, so he lifts his up and lays it to rest behind her.

The fabric of his sleeve tickles her neck and her knuckles are white on the steering wheel.

She tells herself it's because of the cold.

"Where am I taking you?"

She sees his hesitation in the mirror.

"Just go up 101 to Calawah and you can let us out there."

Bella nods and steps on the accelerator.

_Peppermint. Rain and dryer sheets and peppermint._

While the road bumps and dips beneath them, Emmett stares out the window and Edward plays with the radio knobs, tapping out drum beats near Bella's shoulder when he settles on a song.

"There's only one music station?"

She snorts.

"Welcome to Forks."

He laughs too and his breath on her ear disarms her. Makes her reckless.

"You're from Chicago, right?"

This time, the hesitation is in his voice.

"Yeah."

"That city has always been on my wish list."

"It's pretty amazing." The glance he steals at Emmett is quick, but she notices.

Her headlights come up on a turn-off and a street sign and she feels Edward's leg bounce anxiously next to hers.

"This is it."

She turns on her signal and begins to turn when he says,

"You can just stop here."

"I can take you to your place."

"No, it's fine. This is fine."

"Edward, it's still raining."

"We can walk. It's not that far."

"This is silly. I can—"

"Just let us out! Please!"

His voice is sharp. Vehement. It makes her slam on the brakes and she gasps as her seatbelt pulls her back against his arm.

"I'm sorry. Are you okay?"

She feels comforting circles between her shoulder blades, but she tenses and he pulls back, clasping his hands in his lap.

"Thanks for the ride, Bella. Sorry again."

His eyes are earnest and she forgives him, then turns to the boy who's watching them curiously.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Emmett."

"See you tomorrow."

Bella likes that she's gotten used to the sound of Emmett's voice, and as he opens the door to step out into the rain, Edward moves awkwardly across the seat to follow him.

The place where he touched her is colder now.

"See you later, Edward."

He turns back to look at her and his eyes are so green. Greener and brighter in the light from the cabin of her truck.

"See you later, Bella."

Then he's moving quickly and closing the door, but she sees it before she realizes it was the very thing he was trying to hide from her.

A dimly lit sign that reads _Forks Mobile Home Park_.

_"__You can just stop here."_

_"__We can walk. It's not that far."_

_"__Just let us out! Please!"_

She remembers his reluctance and refusal, and knows now that she can call it shame.

Bella watches them as they walk together, hands deep in pockets, hunched shoulder to shoulder under the umbrella that Emmett holds high for both of them.

The illumination from her headlights bounces off their bodies.

It's beautiful, she thinks.

Like two haloed angels in a storm.

* * *

A/N: Pretty sure I borrowed much of that last scene from the "I don't want you to see my house" part of _Pretty in Pink_.

Thanks to all who have read and reviewed!


	11. Chapter 11

_**Word prompt: negotiate**_

_**All copyrights, trademarked items, or recognizable characters, plots, etc. mentioned herein belong to their respective owners. No copying or reproduction of this work is permitted without their express written authorization.**_

* * *

"It was times like these when I thought my father, who hated guns and had never been to any wars, was the bravest man who ever lived."

-Harper Lee, _To Kill a Mockingbird_

* * *

She stands at the lectern and reads aloud.

"I seen hundreds of men come by on the road an' on the ranches, with their bindles on their back an' that same damn thing in their heads . . . every damn one of 'em's got a little piece of land in his head. An' never a God damn one of 'em ever gets it. Just like heaven. Ever'body wants a little piece of lan'. I read plenty of books out here. Nobody never gets to heaven, and nobody gets no land."

When she looks up, they are staring at her, so she clears her throat and fingers the page that Charlie had underlined and asterisked at some point in the book's history.

"What do you think he's saying?"

Tyler Crowley snickers.

"He's saying life's a bitch and then you die."

"You are a walking 80's movie cliché, Tyler."

It's good to hear Rosalie Hale's voice again, all sass and spark, and Bella smiles as Tyler's attempts to form a comeback that dies when he looks at the black-haired girl.

Because today, she is sitting next to Emmett Cullen again, and his eyes are a warning. A dare to continue.

Tyler doesn't.

But Bella gives credit where it's due.

"I warned you about using that word, Tyler, but I think your interpretation is valid."

Tyler and Andrew high-five while Rosalie rolls her eyes and Bella presses on.

"Do you think Crooks is right?

"Who's Crooks?"

"The guy saying the quote, dumbass."

"How come she can say dumbass but I can't say bitch?"

Bella doesn't decide to leave the safety of the lectern and enter the fray. She's just suddenly standing there, between two rows of desks and two students—Victoria and Nathan—looking up at her.

She clasps her hands in front of her stomach, and continues walking, negotiating wayward backpack straps and purses.

"Lennie just told Crooks all about his and George's dream to buy a farm, to own their own piece of land and live off of it together. And, as Tyler mentioned, Crooks is saying that life doesn't happen that way—not to men like George and Lennie. 'Nobody never gets to Heaven, and nobody never gets no land.'"

She has snaked around the room and is surprised to see that they have shifted to follow her.

All of them.

"Do you think Crooks is right?"

"Hell yeah he's right."

"Why do you think so, Andrew?"

"Because it's true. People are always talking about dreams and shit. And they end of doing the same thing over and over. They don't get anywhere."

"Hell, look at this town." It's Victoria and Andrew nods in assent.

"No shit. My sister used to talk all the time about leaving, going to college, and then some asshole gets her preggo and now she's working at the Thriftway."

"Newton went to college, and he still ended up back here."

"Did you go to college, Miss Swan?"

Andrew's question catches her off-guard, so she can't stop the pictures that flood her mind, snapshots of a girl she barely recognizes.

_She's in her cap and gown, displaying the University of Washington sweatshirt Charlie had just given her. Her back is to her classmates and her eyes are focused on a point in the distance. Her smile blazes._

_She has her arm around a tall girl with black hair and thin-framed glasses. They're sitting on a well-made dorm bed, in pajama pants and eyes shut tight with laughter. When Angela found out that Bella had never been drunk, she made her boyfriend buy them a bottle of Malibu rum._

_She's looking at him while he looks at the camera. His long-ish hair is blowing in the wind and she's trying to fix it. Riley always made fun of her for doing that—"mothering" he called it—and she never told him it was just an excuse to touch him. Two months after that photo—four months after her first kiss—he would be studying abroad in Spain and she would be in her truck, rattling down Highway 101 toward home. _

Bella takes a breath, and hopes they don't hear the way it shakes in her throat.

"I did go to college. To U-Dub."

"So why'd you come back?"

"My father."

Andrew nods, like it's a story he's heard a thousand times.

"But don't you still think about leaving? About going to see those places in those books you read?"

She's surprised Victoria ever noticed what she was reading.

"I do."

"And do you think you'll actually do it? Like George and Lennie?"

When she answers, she tries not to think about how the story ends.

"I hope so."

Some of them smile in encouragement, some in pity, and when Bella thinks about these kids, who in less than a minute will insert their earbuds and pull up their hoods, she marvels at how much they see. How much they know.

She's walking back to the lectern when she hears it.

"There's nothing wrong with hope."

The bell rings, but nobody moves.

Because they are all looking at Emmett Cullen as his voice seems to echo off the walls.

…

The light on her answering machine is blinking and she presses play, then lets her finger hover over the "delete" button while she waits for the bill collector to start talking.

There's a rustling sound, followed by a deep breath.

"Hey Bella, it's Angela. I tried calling your cell, but I guess the number's still not working, and I found this one in some old stuff I was packing. Ben and I bought a house and we're moving. Crazy, I know, to be doing that and getting ready for the wedding, but…"

Another deep breath.

"I don't know if you remember, but we're getting married on Saturday…in Port Angeles…and I really want you to come. I left an invitation at your house when I was there for the funeral, but—"

This time, a sharp intake.

"Listen, I know you said that you needed some time, but Bella, it's been almost two months, and it was almost six before that. I can't imagine how shitty things have been, and I just want you to know that I love you…that _we _love you. And it just won't be the same without you there on Saturday."

Her friend sounds like she's crying, and Bella tries not to do the same.

"If I don't hear from you, I understand, and I won't try to call again."

Angela recites her phone number, but Bella memorized is a long time ago.

She remembers the first time Ben proposed, how Angela vowed that she would never get married before 30 while citing Betty Friedan and other sources from her recent paper for Women's Studies. By then, they were old enough to buy their own alcohol.

She wonders when Angela changed her mind, and frowns because she should know the answer.

Her finger still hovers over the delete button and Bella considers pressing it. She would have to drive to Port Angeles. She would have to dress up. She would have to endure pitying "How are you's" from the people who knew and whispers from those who didn't.

_"__Wasn't she Angela's roommate?"_

_"__What happened to her?"_

_"__Didn't her grandma die or something?"_

Staying at home would be so much easier. So much quieter.

But she thinks of Emmett Cullen and courage and hope.

Her hand moves to the phone.

She picks it up and dials.

* * *

_A/N: Sorry for the delay, and for no Edward. I hope to redeem myself on both accounts with tomorrow's chapter. _

_Thanks for taking the time to read and review, and __for all the love you've given these sad kids. Brighter days ahead!_


	12. Chapter 12

_**word prompt: meet**_

_**All copyrights, trademarked items, or recognizable characters, plots, etc. mentioned herein belong to their respective owners. No copying or reproduction of this work is permitted without their express written authorization.**_

* * *

"Life changes in the instant. The ordinary instant."

-Joan Didion, _The Year of Magical Thinking_

* * *

Her dress was not made for February, and she shivers as she walks toward the reception hall.

Then she remembers Angela's face as she walked down the aisle, how her eyes caught Bella's and shined. The memory makes her warm.

She silently thanks her friend for the informality of the reception, open seating and candle centerpieces and twinkle lights hung by hand above a small dance floor.

It's comfortable. Easy. Light.

Just like her friend.

"Excuse me, miss, would you care for an hors d'oeuvre?"

She turns to find a twenty-something boy in a crisp white shirt, holding a silver tray.

"What are they?"

"Tiny fish tacos, miss."

She snorts and decides that Ben must have had control over the menu. A California boy until the end.

"Yes, thank you."

She wanders a bit, aimless, running her fingers over the worn wooden tables, picking up another program to replace the one she must have left behind at the ceremony.

"Bella! Is that you?"

She's surprised to see Jessica Stanley here. They had been nearly inseparable during their first semester, the only two from their class to make it out of Forks and into the big city. Angela quickly made it a trio, until Jess was recruited by a sorority and found frat parties and formals preferable to late-night West Wing marathons.

"Jess, it's great to—"

The rest of her sentence is muffled against her friend's hair as Jessica envelops her in a hug, and Bella is glad to note that while many things have changed, the blonde still wears Angel perfume.

"I didn't think you would be here!"

Her voice is still sunny, if not a little shrill.

"Yeah, I'm surprised to see you, too."

"Oh, Angela and I had the same internship last year. We got super close."

Bella nods and waits for Jessica's smile to shift, for her face to fall.

She is not disappointed.

"Angela told me about your dad. I'm really sorry, Bella. I would have—"

"Thanks. I appreciate it."

She doesn't like her voice. It's harsh and bitter and it makes Jessica's face change for the second time in the past minute—like Bella's a stranger, like she's never seen this girl before.

"I need to use the restroom—"

She's backing away, but it's only two steps before she collides with something—someone—behind her.

"I'm sorry, are you okay?"

They say it at the same time and it's a flurry of arms and fallen fish tacos until she hears it.

A soft chuckle that shouldn't be so familiar.

"Of course."

Edward Cullen is holding a tray in one hand and her waist in the other. His hair is as wild as ever, but his dress shirt is immaculate white and stiff against her fingers and it makes his skin glow a little in candlelight.

"What are you doing here?"

She's waiting for him to reply when she realizes he asked her the same thing.

And that they're still holding on to each other.

She steps back quickly and smooths out her dress, glad to have something (else) to do with her hands.

"My friend. Her wedding. Angela."

_Yes, Bella. Those are words._

He nods and glances down toward the tray.

"Job number two."

When he finally looks up and meets her eyes with his own, she tries to convince herself that her shivers are still from the cold.

"I should go and get a new tray."

She nods and is pretty certain she says "Yes."

"I guess I'll see you later?"

He's biting his lip and this time she's sure she says,

"Yes."

She watches him walk away, and counts three times that he looks back at her.

The smell of Jessica's perfume feels like an interruption.

"Girl, who is _that_?"

She smiles and counts number four.

"A friend."

…

Bella purposely places herself at a table with two older couples who she's never seen before, members of Ben's family who smile at her kindly before returning to their drinks and conversation.

She applauds politely for the bridal party and groomsmen, then louder for Angela and Ben, who run into the room while the DJ plays a Beach Boys song.

It makes her remember Riley and Red Vines, the four of them piled in his old Corolla, summer road trips to Long Beach, the smell of saltwater and sand…

The music shifts.

Angela takes her father's hand.

And Bella forgets how to breathe.

Later, she would not be able to tell you what song it was or if the lights went down or if people turned to look as she stood up and ran past tables and chairs toward the back door. She would not be able to say how cold it was outside or the how wet the grass was against her legs or if the wall hurt her back as she collapsed to the ground.

And she would not be able to tell you when his arms came around her.

But when the roar in her ears fades,

she hears her heartbeat first,

then the strains of music from inside,

then Edward Cullen's whispered words, fierce against her hair.

_You're okay._

_You're okay._

_You're okay._

And oh, how she wants to agree, but she can only clutch his arm harder against her chest, and turn her head toward his shoulder. It's rain and dryer sheets and cinnamon her head clears a little more every time she breathes him in.

"I'm sorry," she whispers.

When he shushes her, his breath is on her ear and she shivers.

"You're freezing."

"I should have grabbed my sweater."

He laughs, soft, and it makes her smile.

She hears two different songs in the time they sit there, clutching loosely, saying nothing, and when the third one begins, it's _Moon River_ and she sighs.

"I love this song."

He shifts behind her and stands, and she's suddenly cold in all the places he made warm.

She's trying to decide if any of this actually happened when he's standing in front her, his pants dirty, his arm outstretched, his hand open toward her.

"Dance with me."

Her breath catches and she looks down at the smudges and stains on her hands and dress, feels the tears drying on her face and neck.

"No."

"The song's going to end soon."

"I'm kind of a mess."

"You're kind of amazing."

"You said the same thing about Chicago."

"I meant it then, too."

She looks away, afraid of his eyes and the way they make her feel. But he's taking her hand and pulling her up and brushing off her dress while he does the same to his pants. His hand is on the small of her back and he's guiding her toward the door when she stops.

"I can't go back in there."

"Yes, you can."

"Everyone saw me."

"You were already in the back. Nobody saw you."

"You did."

"I did."

His voice is barely a whisper, and she wonders if he knows that his fingers are drawing circles on her skin.

It's dark and warm and the dance floor is full as Edward guides her to an empty space in the corner.

His hand moves from her back to her waist, and she lets her fingers run down his arm before taking his other hand in hers.

When he touched her before, it was flickers and sparks.

This time, the places where they meet form a constellation under her skin.

"I told you no one noticed."

She looks around the room and acknowledges that he's right.

No one is looking at her.

No one is whispering or pointing.

She relaxes. Lets her head fall on his shoulder. Sings silently along to a song she knows by heart.

_Two drifters, off to see the world_

_There's such a lot of world to see…_

Angela finds her eyes from across the dance floor and mouths "I love you" from where she sways.

_We're after that same rainbow's end, waiting, round the bend…_

Bella smiles and mouths "I love you, too."

_My Huckleberry Friend, Moon River, and me…_

And because she is her best friend, Angela's face shifts to confusion and she mouths, "Who is _that_?"

But Bella can only smile brighter and shrug.

Because she has absolutely no idea.

…

On the drive home, she hums _Moon River_ and wonders if this is what it feels like to come alive.

* * *

A/N: Damn, that felt good.

Also, fans of my one shot "The Wishing Tree" may see some familiarities in the "dance with me" scene. This was unintentional. Apparently, what my Edwards lack in range, they make up for in sweetness.


	13. Chapter 13: Part I

_**word prompt: good**_

_**All copyrights, trademarked items, or recognizable characters, plots, etc. mentioned herein belong to their respective owners. No copying or reproduction of this work is permitted without their express written authorization.**_

* * *

_**"**_I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable,

I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world."

-Walt Whitman, _Song of Myself_

* * *

"I want to try something different today."

There's a collective groan, but she doesn't feel the need to arm herself against it.

"Another book? We haven't even finished the one about mice and dudes."

"Thank you, Tyler. It's not another book, though you should read Chapter 5 for Wednesday. Today, I'd like to read a poem."

Another collective groan. Louder this time, and she chuckles while passing out the copies she made this morning.

"I'm sorry, Miss Swan, but poetry is gay."

"Your apology doesn't make your comment any less offensive, Tyler."

"Yeah, but all that rhyming and shit?"

"You like music, don't you?"

"Is this the part where you give us a rap song so we think you're cool?"

She laughs.

"I can promise you, Mr. Crowley, being cool has never been a personal goal of mine."

She hears him whisper "No shit" to Andrew, but Andrew ignores his friend and picks up the paper Bella has just placed on his desk.

"This doesn't look like a poem, Miss Swan."

"What makes you say that, Andrew?"

"It's like all over the place. It doesn't have those—what are they called?"

"Stanzas," says Victoria, also eyeing her page curiously.

"Yeah, stanzas."

"You're absolutely right. Both of you."

They smile, and she can't help but wonder how little they must hear those words.

She makes a silent promise to say them more often.

"This poem is written in free verse, meaning that there is no regular form, meter, or rhythm. That's why it looks so different from the poetry you're used to reading. It was written by this man, Walt Whitman."

She tapes a picture of him on the board.

"That dude looks crazy."

"Serious."

She smiles as she takes in the old poet's great white beard and knowing eyes. Whitman was always one of her favorites.

"He may have been a little crazy, but it was the good kind, I think. He was also a printer and a teacher and one of the most important writers in American history."

They already look bored, but she smirks as she continues, knowing what's ahead.

"His work was considered controversial, not only for breaking with poetic tradition, but because of his constant references to the human body and sexuality."

"Where's that part?" Tyler picks up his paper for the first time, as the rest try in varying degrees to scan the words in front of them.

"This is just an excerpt from his poem 'Song of Myself.' The actual poem goes on for pages and pages. Can someone start reading?"

"I got this."

Tyler Crowley is raising his hand, and though she knows it's not for the most noble of reasons—quite the opposite, in fact—she can't help but feel a little proud.

"Please do, Tyler."

He clears his throat.

"I celebrate myself, and sing myself,

And what I assume you shall assume,

For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

I loafe and invite my soul,

I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass."

Tyler's voice is as clear and confident when he reads poetry as it is when he's throwing insults, and her pride swells.

"My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil, this air,

Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their parents the same,

I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,

Hoping to cease not till death."

The room is silent, and she wonders if any of them have ever heard Tyler Crowley read aloud before.

She makes herself another promise.

"What do you guys think?"

"Uhh…where's the sex part?"

The class laughs, but Tyler continues to search the page like some depraved detective looking for clues.

"He sounds kind of conceited."

She crosses to Rosalie and smiles knowingly at the way her desk has been moved so it just touches the side of Emmett Cullen's.

And the way his foot is just touching the side of hers.

"Why do you say that, Rosalie?"

"He's just talking about himself and how awesome he is."

Some of them nod in agreement.

"I don't think that's it."

Emmett Cullen says it like speaking is the most natural thing in the world.

But when Bella sees his hands grip the page so hard it almost tears, she knows he didn't mean to.

She wants to help him retreat, to call on someone else or change the subject. But then she thinks about Tyler and Andrew and Victoria, and all the things she would never have known if she had never asked.

Rosalie is about to save him, when Bella says,

"Why do you think so, Emmett?"

His eyes flash to hers, pleading, and she tries to tell him without sound that he can do this.

He shakes his head.

She whispers it, so he knows.

"You're okay."

His eyes change.

Like he's heard those words before.

Rosalie places her hand over Emmett's and he doesn't flinch. Instead, he squeezes her hand tighter and looks at the place where they meet.

He breathes. Shaky.

But deliberate.

"I see what Rosalie is saying, but I don't think he's just being conceited."

She nods.

_You're okay._

"He's not just saying that he's great."

_You're okay._

"He's saying that we're all great."

_Yes._

The moment feels too monumental for this poorly lighted room, and Bella waits for the ceiling to burst open to reveal angels with trumpets rejoicing in this miracle.

She settles for a hand on his shoulder as she walks by.

"Victoria, can you please read the last part?"

"The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me, he complains of my gab and my loitering.

I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable,

I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.

The last scud of day holds back for me,

It flings my likeness after the rest and true as any on the shadow'd wilds,

It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.

I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun,

I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.

I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,

If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.

You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,

But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,

And filter and fibre your blood.

Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,

Missing me one place search another,

I stop somewhere waiting for you."

"Dude. Where the hell's the sex?"

"What's a yawp?"

She snakes through the rows toward Andrew and remembers one of her favorite movies. How fitting it is for this moment, for this day.

"A yawp is a loud cry or yell."

"Like screaming?"

"Maybe like a scream. But not out of fear or shock. It's an affirmation. An unabashed celebration of the self."

"Like an orgasm?"

"No, Tyler. Like a yawp."

They look at her. Curious.

"Does someone want to give it a try?"

Eyes avert instantly, and she shrugs and begins to walk toward the lectern.

"It's okay. I think you all get the—"

"You show us, Miss Swan."

It's Nathan this time, and she stops.

"Me?"

"Yeah. Show us how it's done."

They're smiling and nodding in encouragement and in all her plans and dreams for today, she never expected this.

"I—"

She wants to say "can't," but then she thinks about everything they've done today. How much they've given her of themselves, and she cannot bring herself to disappoint them.

However humiliating it may be.

"Okay."

They murmur and smile in anticipation, phones and papers long forgotten.

She smooths her dress, plants her feet, and closes her eyes. She inhales deep into her lungs and tells herself "You're okay," but it's Edward Cullen's voice in her head, against her hair, and it's his arms around her as she smiles and screams

"YAAAAAAAAAWP!"

She never knew she could be so loud.

Her students applaud and laugh and whistle. They stomp on the floor and drumroll on desks.

_Her students._

Somewhere along the way, she began to think of them as hers.

Something else she never expected.

Her cheeks are wet from laughing so hard when she says,

"Anyone else want to give it a try?"

Tyler Crowley is on his chair in an instant, hands around his mouth as he yells

"YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAWP!"

He's high-fiving Nathan when Mike Newton rushes through the doorway.

"Crowley, in my office, now!"

She sees the flash of confusion on Tyler's face, watches it turn to something like hurt before it hardens into the stubborn indifference she knows so well.

She nearly runs to place herself between Mike and Tyler.

"Mr. Newton, Tyler's not doing anything wrong. We were—" But he's not even looking at her.

"I said get down, Crowley."

"Newton, why don't you suck—"

"Tyler, stop!"

Her voice is strong. Strong enough to keep Tyler from digging his own grave. Strong enough to make Mike Newton turn to face her.

"It's my fault, Mr. Newton. We were studying Walt Whitman and practicing—"

"Walt who?"

Tyler smirks.

"Walt Whitman, sir. One of the most important writers in American history."

She hears snickers and is surprised that one glare from her silences them.

Newton pulls up on his pants in some almost-middle-aged attempt at regaining his composure.

"I heard yelling in the hallway. I just wanted to—"

"Yes. I apologize for that. It was part of an assignment."

He looks annoyed at her interruption.

She doesn't care.

"Well, while you're working on your 'assignments,' try to remember that there are classes in session."

She smiles, wide and fake.

"Thank you, Mr. Newton. You're condescension is always appreciated."

Rosalie snorts, but Newton just looks confused as he ambles backwards out of the room. Just before he leaves, he snaps his fingers and points at Tyler.

"In your seat, Crowley."

"Yes, sir. Of course, sir." Tyler bows deep then sits down, posture perfect and hands clasped, the picture of a model student.

Newton nods sharply and finally leaves.

When Bella closes the door behind him, she exhales.

"Dang, you guys. Miss Swan just yawped all over Newton."

When they start laughing, she does, too.

…

She can count on one hand the number of times she opened a door full to bursting with good news, ready to shout over the rooftops at the first person who would listen.

_1.__She's 17, an acceptance letter from the University of Washington waves wildly in her hand and Charlie hugs her so tight her feet come off the ground._

_2.__She's 19, and the blonde-haired boy in her Gothic Literature class has asked her out on her very first date. Angela squeals and immediately starts raiding her closet for cute dresses._

_3.__She's 20, and while there's no door, there is an e-mail from the Study Abroad program open on her screen and she drops her phone twice trying to call Charlie._

_4.__She's 21, and Charlie has been accepted into a trial program for a new cancer treatment. Her smile lasts the four days it takes for his condition to decline and Dr. Masen to withdraw his name._

_5.__She's 22, and a man with calloused hands and strong arms tells her she is amazing and dances with her to her favorite song._

Today is number six.

And she wants to tell someone about it.

She wants to tell _him_ about it.

She considers looking up his phone number in Emmett's file, but doesn't want to use it for personal reasons.

So she watches four hours of television without really watching, and walks to the fridge to stare at it for the seventeenth time.

And that's when she sees it.

A magnet from her and Angela's trip to Vancouver.

And the menu that rests beneath.

She looks at her watch.

8:00.

And after she dials, she closes her eyes.

"Hello, I'd like to place an order for delivery, but first I have a question."

She breathes.

"Is Edward Cullen working tonight?"

* * *

A/N: Shout out to my English nerds who got the _Dead Poets Society_ references. Part II will be up tomorrow!

I also want to thank (again) everyone who has read and taken the time to review. I so wish I had the time to respond to all of you, but I figure you'd rather have the updates instead.


	14. Chapter 13: Part 2

**_word prompt: good (continued)_**

**_All copyrights, trademarked items, or recognizable characters, plots, etc. mentioned herein belong to their respective owners. No copying or reproduction of this work is permitted without their express written authorization._**

* * *

"Long have you timidly waded  
Holding a plank by the shore,  
Now I will you to be a bold swimmer,  
To jump off in the midst of the sea,  
Rise again, nod to me, shout,  
And laughingly dash with your hair."

-Walt Whitman, _Song of Myself_

* * *

She paces.

Because that's the thing about bravery. You open the door and you exhale and you pat yourself on the back only to find another hallway, and another door at the end.

And you begin to wonder if you've gone too far.

And even if this hallway is the actual hallway in the house she knows like the back of her hand, it feels different and strange somehow, and even if this door is her own front door, the one with the wreath still on it from last Christmas, it's not the same because any minute now _he_ will be on the other side.

And she seeks comfort in doing what she knows best.

She begins to doubt herself.

_He only helped you because you were acting like a lunatic and he is kind and decent and would do that for anyone._

_He only danced with you because he felt sorry for this crazy broken girl in a dress not made for February._

_He's only nice to you because you're his brother's teacher._

The doorbell shakes her awake, and for a split second she contemplates turning off the lights and acting like she's not at home.

The doorbell rings again.

She walks toward the sound like she's walking through fire.

The doorknob feels heavy in her hands and the cold air from outside gives her chills.

But only for a moment.

Because Edward Cullen is standing on her porch, looking as nervous as she feels, and her heart beats faster, and her blood rushes warm from memory.

"Hi."

"Hi."

She can't tell you who said it first, only that they were smiling by the end.

"I have your delivery."

"Thank you for coming out here."

"It's my last one, so…"

And then he's laughing at her a bit.

"You should probably take it."

She looks at the bag, still hanging in his hand.

"Of course, I…"

"You sure ordered a lot."

She sees him kick himself, and realizes this is the moment she really should have planned for. Because while she practiced her phone call the restaurant five times before dialing, she never thought about what to say when he was actually in front of her.

Her father would tell her to be honest.

He would also tell her she's not allowed to date until she's 30.

She decides on the former.

"I got enough for two."

"Oh? You're expecting someone?"

"No."

"It's okay if you are. I'll just take the money. I mean—"

He's looking at the ground, clenching and re-clenching his fists.

_You're okay, Edward Cullen._

"No, I mean I was expecting you."

When he looks at her, she can see the weight lift from his shoulders.

His eyes, brighter than ever been.

His lips, turned into a smile she's never seen before.

And it's she made this for him with her own two hands.

The thought makes her smile, makes her strong.

"Do you want to come in?"

He nods, and she opens the door wide.

…

They move slowly at first. Orbiting without touching. He's unsure on his feet and when she invites him to sit at the table, he does so dutifully and not a little bit relieved.

She unpacks styrafoam containers and asks him if he wants something to drink.

Water is fine he says and she pours glasses for both of them.

When they sit, it's on opposite ends of her small wooden table.

When they start eating, she can only hear forks against plates and her own heart.

"Emmett spoke in class today."

"He did?"

"Yeah, we were reading a poem. He had some really good ideas about it."

"He's always been smart. Just he never talks so teachers think he's stupid."

"Well, he talked today."

"Because he finally has a good teacher."

Pride and gratitude sit in the air between them, but there's something else, too, something in the way he's looking at her and how it makes her knees shake beneath the table.

Something she's too unnerved to name.

"I think Rosalie's helping him, too."

She's grateful for the change in subject, and she smiles at the memory of kissing desks and feet entangled beneath them by the end of the afternoon.

"You know about her?"

"I'm his brother. Who else is he going to talk to about girls?"

She chuckles and speaks without thinking.

"He's lucky, then. The only people who gave me advice about boys were Jessica Stanley and my dad."

It's the word "dad" that makes them both stop.

"I'm so sorry…I didn't mean…"

Because even if she has no idea why she's sorry, the look on his face and the shake of his head tell her that she should be.

"You don't need to be sorry. You've probably wondered why I'm Emmett's guardian, and I know his file doesn't say anything."

"You don't have to tell me any—"

"Yes, I do."

He wipes his mouth with his napkin, and takes a drink of water.

Like he's preparing himself.

"I was eight when we lost my mom. Drunk driver. Emmett was a baby so he doesn't really remember her. And part of me is glad he doesn't because she was wonderful and he has enough weight to carry without knowing how good it could have been. But the other part of me hates that he doesn't have any good memories to hold onto."

When he breathes, it catches in his throat, and Bella wants to hold him the same way he held her.

"Dad was crazy without her. He kept drinking—ironic, I know—and no one wants a surgeon with shaky hands, so he lost his job and we went to live with our grandparents. Emmett was in elementary school and it was nice for a while, but they were old and when Emmett started acting out, they didn't know what to do with him."

His hand is warm and she marvels at the way his fist relaxes beneath her touch.

He exhales, short and sharp and she feels it on her skin.

"I've told this story a million times, and every time, it sounds more and more like some bullshit movie."

"It's not bullshit."

"I know, I just…"

He opens his hand and seems to watch in wonder as their fingers intersect.

Hers between his.

His voice is softer when he speaks.

"Dad's liver gave out around the same time as grandma and grandpa's patience. When we went to foster care, they promised to keep us together, and we were at first, but Emmett kept getting moved around."

She knows that this is the part where she should apologize, say something like "I'm sorry for your loss" or "I'm sorry that happened to you," but she also knows enough about tragedy and pain and unkept promises to know that "sorry" is the last thing he wants to hear.

So she squeezes his hand a little tighter.

He breathes and traces her fingernails with his thumb.

"I always promised him when I got old enough, we'd leave and get a place of our own. I worked my ass off to get an apartment and get all the paperwork finished. And we were doing okay, but it was like that city was full of ghosts. I got a map of the United States at the gas station and told him to throw a dart at it."

"It landed on Forks?"

Because it seems ridiculous that something so small could lead to this moment and how overwhelming it feels in her bones, in her body, in the air that surrounds them.

"Technically, the first two were on Arizona, but fuck that heat."

"I bet you wish it had landed somewhere in California."

He draws her hand closer and when she looks up, his eyes are on hers, flickering between them and her mouth and maybe lower.

"I used to."

She smiles as she burns.

Edward takes his phone out to check the time, and she'd be disappointed if he wasn't still holding her hand.

"I really hate to say this, but I have to go. I promised Emmett I'd pick him up at 10:30. I'm pretty sure he and Rosalie just went on their first date."

"I'm happy for them. They're sweet together."

"She must be something. It took me forever to convince him to ask her out. He was terrified."

"First crush."

"Yeah."

She's the first to pull her hand away and she busies them with clearing the table.

"I'll walk you out."

"You don't have to—"

"No, I want to."

He smiles and carries their glasses to the sink.

…

They're walking down the hall toward her front door when he stops.

"Is that you?"

In the picture, she's nine years old with eyes and teeth too big for her face and one of Charlie's first attempts at French braiding.

"Yes."

"Holy shit, that's the greatest thing I've ever seen."

"Don't you have to leave?"

"What's this bottle for?"

She stops short. Stops smiling.

"It's just change. It's—It's stupid."

"Bella's Adventures?"

"I was a kid. I wanted to travel around the world. It was my dad's idea of a piggy bank."

She's staring at a picture of him now, holding his catch from an afternoon spent fishing with Billy. His hat shades his eyes but she can see them in her mind, warm and crinkled from his smile and the sun.

She feels Edward's hand on her arm, his breath on her face.

"Next time, you can tell me your sad story."

She nods.

When she opens the door, he's pulling the sleeves of his sweatshirt over his hands and taking his beanie out of his back pocket.

"Thanks for dinner, Bella."

"Thanks for joining me, Edward."

"Thanks for listening."

"Thanks for talking."

They laugh, and as much as she wants to ask him, to tell him, to name the thing between them, she thinks she's had enough courage for one day.

"Bye, Bella."

"Bye, Edward."

He bites his lip and nods and she watches him walk away.

When she closes the door, she tells herself that next time, she'll be braver.

Except that she can't close it all the way because suddenly his hand is there and then his arm and then the rest of him as he stands in front of her, shaking from the cold and that something else.

"Go out with me?"

"When?"

"Saturday."

"Yes."

And then he's closer than he's ever been, his fingers feathering across her neck, his lips soft and cold and warm against her cheek.

"I'll pick you up at 7."

And then she's smiling against his skin.

This time, she doesn't even see him leave. Doesn't even hear the door shut tight behind her. Doesn't even see the hallway as she floats toward the stairs.

She thinks about bravery and she thinks about Edward.

She thinks about doors and hallways and sad stories.

And how they're not as scary if you have someone beside you.

* * *

A/N: Love, love, love.


	15. Chapter 14

_**All copyrights, trademarked items, or recognizable characters, plots, etc. mentioned herein belong to their respective owners. No copying or reproduction of this work is permitted without their express written authorization.**_

* * *

"Memory takes a lot of poetic licence. It omits some details; others are exaggerated, according to the emotional value of the articles it touches, for memory is seated predominantly in the heart. "

-Tennessee Williams, _The Glass Menagerie_

* * *

It's 2:54 on a Friday and her students squirm in their seats, their bodies and brains buzzing with anticipation for what the weekend might hold.

For the first time in a long time, she knows how they feel.

Because ever since Edward Cullen walked out of her house, things she saw everyday: her kitchen table, the picture of Charlie, the tree in her front yard that Edward almost ran into because he was looking back at her.

These ordinary things are no longer ordinary.

She sees them and she cannot stop the way her body wakens, the way her heart and stomach stir as she remembers his hands and his lips, the way her pulse begins to sound like his whispered "7."

She's never carried someone around like this. She never claimed to love Riley, but she thought they had something good, something worthy of being called her first and only great romance. But if Riley made her feel good, Edward makes her giddy.

She doesn't know what to do with it, doesn't know where to put him. It makes her anxious.

Anxious and electric.

So she doesn't mind when they rush past her and barely acknowledge her goodbyes and thank yous and have-a-good-weekends. They are busy dreaming of possibilities, and she understands.

Now, at least, she understands.

"Have a good weekend, Emmett. You too, Rosalie."

"You too, Miss Swan."

She does not miss the way Rosalie smirks when she says it and the way Emmett Cullen winks, and once again, she is reminded of his brother.

Then, she sees Rosalie's books tucked under Emmett's arm, and is reminded all over again.

She's packing up and trying not to look at her hands because every time she does, she thinks about his thumb and the way it memorized her fingertips, and if the ghost of him has this much power over her, she's not sure if she can make it through Saturday.

And then she remembers "Saturday" and her cheek tingles where his lips touched her skin.

"Bella!"

_Thank God._

She's happy to see Esme, but it could be Mike Newton and she'd welcome the distraction.

"Esme, how are you?"

The older woman carries a stack of papers, probably still warm from the copy machine, and smiles as she walks toward the lectern and leans against it.

"I'm well, thank you. This week got away from me, and I just wanted to check up on how things went with Emmett Cullen's guardian."

_Fine. He brought me chicken parmesan and his eyes are a green I can't quite name._

_Great. He held me and let me cry on his shirt and danced with me to a song that plays on repeat in my head._

_Wonderful. He's taking me out tomorrow and I keep wondering if he tastes as good as he smells._

_He makes me think about possibilities._

_He makes me imagine things._

_Want things._

_Constantly._

"It was good."

She feels the blood in her cheeks and she hopes Esme doesn't notice.

"Is he okay with Emmett remaining with you?"

_His forearms and the way they flexed when he said, "Because he finally has a good teacher."_

"I think so."

"And has Emmett been progressing?"

_His lips and they way they smiled when she told him his brother spoke in class._

"Yes."

"See? I told you."

_His hand on her shoulder and "Next time, you can tell me your sad story."_

"You did. Thank you. I really appreciate it."

Esme raps her stack of papers against the lectern as she leaves.

"Have a good weekend!"

_"__Go out with me?"_

_"__When?"_

_"__Saturday."_

_"__Yes."_

"I will."

…

She's walking toward the Thriftway when she sees it in the window of a consignment shop across the street.

The bells on the door chime as she opens it, and Mrs. Greene smiles when she looks up from her book and sees Bella.

"Miss Swan, is that you?"

Bella always loved the way the shop owner called her "Miss Swan," even when she was thirteen and shopping for a dress for the eighth grade dance that Charlie all but forced her to attend.

And Mrs. Greene always seemed to appreciate Bella's fondness for things that were old and unique and impossible to find at the Port Angeles mall.

"It is, Mrs. Green."

"I haven't seen you in ages."

"It has been a while." She can't even remember the last time.

"How have you been, dear?"

Mrs. Greene, like most of Forks' older residents, attended the funeral of the former and much beloved Chief of Police. Bella remembers the woman's paper-skinned hands holding her own, the way she said nothing and how good it felt to not have to say anything back.

"I've been okay. Better."

And Bella knows the shop owner believes her. It's the way she nods, soft and deliberate.

"I saw this dress and…"

"It's you. You should try it on."

Mrs. Greene gently unzips and takes the dress from the form in the window and hands it to Bella, who walks toward the curtained-off corner that serves as a dressing room.

The lining swishes against her legs and the soft wool feels warm beneath her hands and the green looks like his eyes did in the moonlight when he held out his hand and asked her to dance.

It makes her want to twirl.

She steps out to look at herself in the mirror and Mrs. Greene is there, waiting for her.

"You look like a dream, Miss Swan."

Mrs. Greene guides Bella to the mirror and stands behind her. She gathers her long brown hair in her hand, pulls it to the side, and fastens it with a hair clip so Bella's neck and one shoulder are exposed.

She imagines Edward kissing her there, and smiles while she blushes.

The older woman places her hands on Bella's shoulder. When she leans closer, her perfume smells expensive.

"Whoever he is, he's in trouble."

She wants to say it's not possible, that he's the dangerous one.

Instead she asks, "How much is it?"

She feels Mrs. Green tug on something near her waist.

"It's on sale. Twenty dollars."

"That's not possible. This must be at least—."

"Keep arguing, young lady, and I'll make it ten."

…

The dress sits next to her on the bench seat as she drives home. At every red light she glances down and thinks of what he'll say, what he'll look like, when he sees her in it.

The thought alone makes her smile. Makes her tremble.

* * *

A/N: Tomorrow: The Date.


	16. Chapter 15

**All copyrights, trademarked items, or recognizable characters, plots, etc. mentioned herein belong to their respective owners. No copying or reproduction of this work is permitted without their express written authorization.**

* * *

"...and tonight the stars'll be out, and don't you know that God is Pooh Bear?"

-Jack Kerouac, _On the Road_

* * *

It's 6:43.

She has been ready for an hour.

She told herself it was because it had been so long since she curled her hair and she wanted to make sure she had enough time. But really, it was because she had to do something before she crawled out of her own skin.

And she had already baked three dozen cookies.

So she sits at a stool near the kitchen counter, hair curled and clipped to the side like Mrs. Greene showed her, and she tries not to look at the door. Again.

When she hears the rumble of a car outside, she tells herself to stay put, but it's too late and she's flying to the door to look out the peephole.

It's not him, and she turns to rest her back and head against the door. She tells herself to breathe, and hopes that this time, her body will obey.

Seconds or minutes later, the doorbell sounds—was it always so loud?—and she clamps her hand over mouth so she doesn't scream.

That's how Edward Cullen sees her when she opens the door. Hand over her mouth and eyes wide.

She expects him to laugh, but his eyes are wide, too and he's looking at the dress she bought just for him.

And then he's looking at her, and his hand comes up and gently pulls hers away from her face.

"Can I move this?"

She nods and keeps telling herself to breathe, but he's wearing a tie and a jacket with his jeans and it's like every boy she fell in love with in every movie she ever watched is here, in front of her, and it's hard to remember things like breathing when he's holding your hand and you're not sure if anything happening to you right now is real.

"Can I kiss you?"

It's the way he says it, and the way it was the last thing she expected that snaps her back to reality.

She nods, but she's only half way there when his hand is on her neck and in her hair and his thumb is on her cheek and finally, _finally_, his lips are on hers. They are just as soft and just as warm as when she felt them on her skin, but so much better this way, and her hands grasp the sides of his jacket, close to his waist, and squeeze.

He shivers, and he lets her go.

But she holds on to his jacket because it's the only thing keeping her on the ground.

He says "I'm sorry" but he's smiling so she doesn't believe him.

"For what?"

"I think I was supposed to wait until the end, but you opened the door and I couldn't wait anymore."

And while she never expected that kiss in that moment, it's always his honesty that surprises her most.

He takes her hands from his sides and holds them in his own.

"Are you ready?"

For this, for him, she can be honest, too.

"Yes."

He opens the car door for her, and when he climbs in, he turns on the heater and makes sure the vents are pointed in her direction.

She doesn't think she needs them, but she doesn't tell him so.

…

"Where are we going?"

He smirks, and her lips tingle at the memory.

"You'll see."

She doesn't know what to do with her hands, so she clasps them in her lap and looks out the window, hoping that the changing scenery will distract her from his tie and his mouth and the way the car smells like him.

But then his right hand is on her left, pulling it off her lap, interlocking their fingers before coming to rest between them.

"You don't like surprises, do you?"

"Not usually. I never understood why people like them so much."

His face falls a bit.

"But I get it now."

When he turns on the radio, he doesn't let go of her.

When she squeezes his hand, he squeezes back.

…

They pull off the main road and on to a dirt path, and she's still not sure where they're going, but it feels familiar.

"If I asked you to close your eyes, would you do it?"

_I think I might do anything you ask me._

"Yes."

"Will you close your eyes?"

She looks at him and smiles, and even though this is the part about surprises that she hates the most, the achy awkward moment before the thing you think is going to happen actually happens, it's the way he glances between her face and her dress and the road ahead and the way his hand gets sweatier the closer they get to wherever they're going that makes her obey. Happily.

Not a minute later and they're stopped and she hears him open the door, then it's cold air and his arms as he lifts her out of her seat.

"Keep them closed."

"I am."

His arm is warm across her shoulders and his other hand is wrapped tight in hers, but she still trips over rocks before they get to something like pavement.

He releases her hand and she feels him move beside her, then the sound of a lock and a door opening and then warmth as he takes her inside.

She smells him and feels his breath on her ear before he whispers.

"Stay right here."

She feels kind of silly, standing there by herself with her eyes closed, and without him to ground her that achy feeling starts to creep back in to her stomach.

So she crosses her arms around her waist and focuses on the sound of his feet as they run from one side of the room to the other. The air that surrounds her feels heavy and smells like earth and petals.

Then his hands are uncrossing her arms and he's leading her across the floor.

They stop and before he can say anything, she's running her hands up his arms to find his neck and standing on her toes to kiss him. She feels him smiling beneath her lips as his arms come around her waist, but then she's tasting him with her tongue and he's not smiling any more.

When they both pull away to breathe, he rests his forehead on hers and she whispers,

"This is the best date I've ever had."

She hears him chuckle and feels him trace her cheek with his fingertips.

"You haven't even opened your eyes yet."

"Not necessary."

He kisses her again.

"Can I open them?"

"Please."

She does. They're blurry at first from being closed for so long but then she blinks and then she gasps.

Because she's standing in a nursery with makeshift rows of twinkle lights above her head and a table with two chairs and candles in front of her, and a handsome boy she's known for two weeks or maybe two lifetimes is holding her hand.

"What—how did you do this?"

"This is job number three."

"Seducing girls?"

He laughs, leads her to a chair, and pulls it out for her.

"Working here in the nursery. And I promise I'm not seducing you."

"You're not?"

She sits down and tries not to sound disappointed.

He pushes her in and leans next to her ear.

"I think it's been a long time since someone took care of you. So that's what I'm doing."

He sits across from her, opens a paper bag and pulls out two deli sandwiches.

"Sorry. This is all I had time to get. The lights took longer than I thought."

"It's perfect."

_You're perfect._

He smiles bright and takes her hand like he's done it a million times before, and then he starts saying something about turkey and begins searching through the bag for napkins.

Bella Swan knows a lot about tears. There's the kind that creep up slow, squinting out of the side of your eyes before you catch them. There's the kind that hit without warning, a punch to the gut, and suddenly your face and neck are wet. There's the kind that last through the night and dry on your cheeks and your pillow and make your eyelashes stick together when you wake up. She knows them all well, considers herself an expert, even. And before this moment, she would have told you that "tears of happiness" are bullshit, and strictly reserved for overwrought romance novels and old movies.

Now, it's something else she's beginning to understand.

Something else he's beginning to teach her.

…

"Favorite food."

"Chicken parmesan. You?"

"Pizza. It's a cliché, I know, but if you ever go to Chicago, you'll understand."

"Favorite color?"

His eyes glance at her dress.

"Green. Yours?"

She glances at his eyes.

"Green."

…

"So I finally met Rosalie. She seems…interesting."

"She's incredible. Don't let the boots and spikes fool you. She sees a lot. Cares a lot."

"It's been a long time since I've heard Emmett talk so much, so she's fine by me."

"Did he always have difficulty speaking?"

"No. That didn't start until he was eleven or so. There was this one group home—"

He breathes deep.

"He was getting bigger and the other boys were afraid, so they gave him hell. It took me six months to get him transferred somewhere else."

"How awful."

"He's getting better. That's what matters."

When she takes both of his hands in both of hers, they both look down at the way they fit together.

…

"Will you tell me about your father?"

She nods, knowing this was coming.

"He was the Chief of Police here when I was growing up, but he started having a lot of back trouble and had to retire early."

She inhales and he squeezes her hand.

"The trouble turned out to be cancer. I was in college and left to move back here and help him."

He squeezes harder.

"He died in December."

When she looks up, his eyes are sad and kind.

"It was just the two of you?"

She nods.

"Yeah. Just us. He was—"

"He was what?"

"He was my best friend."

He nods his head like he knows, because he does.

…

"Is this Mr. Greene's nursery?"

"Yeah. He's such a cool guy. He hired me even though I didn't have any experience with plants and stuff."

"His wife is sweet, too. She owns the dress shop."

He gestures toward her and asks, "Is it where you got that dress?"

"It is."

"I'll have to thank her."

When his eyes get dark, she squirms in her seat.

…

"Favorite book."

"Not possible. You?"

"I only really read the stuff they gave us in high school."

"I can teach you."

He smirks, slow and steady.

"I hope so."

…

It must have happened somewhere between the moment he rang the doorbell and the moment he walked her home. Maybe when he stood on the step beneath her and their lips lined up when they kissed, when his arms came around her and picked her up off the ground. Somewhere between her giggle and his laugh.

It must have happened before they said good night three times each and kissed with his palms against her door and their bodies pressed together.

Before she hung her keys on the hook in the entryway and heard him start his car.

She closes her eyes, rests her head and back against the door, and tries to remember who she was four hours ago.

It's impossible.


	17. Chapter 16

_**word prompt: rigid**_

_**All copyrights, trademarked items, or recognizable characters, plots, etc. mentioned herein belong to their respective owners. No copying or reproduction of this work is permitted without their express written authorization.**_

* * *

"I don't want to repeat my innocence. I want the pleasure of losing it again."

-F. Scott Fitzgerald, _This Side of Paradise_

* * *

She floats. Drifts. Glides from one place to another.

The nervous energy that coursed through her veins in the days leading up to their date is still there, just tempered now. Soothed by the moonlight when he kissed her, kept aglow by the twinkle lights she sees every time she looks up.

They talk at night because he works late, and she whispers into her phone while she cocoons herself in her bed, imagining her blankets are his arms.

_I wish you were here_, she wants to say. But she doesn't because he's tired and he doesn't want to leave Emmett alone and it makes her respect for him turn to a kind of reverence.

Sometimes he falls asleep, and when his breaths turn soft and steady in her ear, she tries to match hers to his and pretend they're lying in this dark room together. And sometimes she feels crazy and wrong, because it's only been three weeks and a single night and it cannot be possible to fall this quickly.

But when her phone rings and his picture appears, she thinks maybe it can.

"What did you do in class today?"

"We finished _Of Mice and Men_."

"That's a messed up story."

"You remember it?"

"High school wasn't that long ago, Bella."

She forgets sometimes, how young they are.

"Did you play sports?"

"Baseball. I was okay."

She imagines him in home whites with grass stains on the knees and her legs get restless beneath her sheets.

"I bet you were great."

He chuckles.

"I really wasn't. But practices and games meant less time in the group home, so I did it."

She wants to hug him, so she holds on to the phone with both hands.

"What about you?"

"Sports?"

She laughs so hard she snorts.

"Only if you count walking to the library during my free period."

"So you were one of the quiet ones. I bet you didn't even know."

"Know what?"

"How many guys had crushes on you."

She really has to get the snorting under control.

"Trust me, that was not the case."

"Trust _me_. It's always the ones who don't see you who break your heart."

She can't imagine anyone not seeing him. And she tells him so.

"I changed schools a couple times. I was always mysterious at first. But then they heard the story and I was the weirdo with no parents."

"They didn't deserve you."

"Same to you, shy girl."

_You make me brave, _she wants to say, but she smiles instead and hopes he hears it.

He yawns, and she can tell he's trying to cover it with his hand.

"What time do you need to be at the nursery tomorrow?"

"7 a.m. Then I have deliveries until 10."

She looks at the clock. It's nearly midnight.

"You should get some sleep."

He sighs.

"I should."

"Maybe I'll order Italian tomorrow," she says.

Then she hears him exhale and it's the kind where he's running his hand through his hair, so she turns on to her stomach.

"Bella."

"What?"

"I asked the other delivery guy to switch routes with me."

And all the nervous energy that had been softened by the murmur of his voice in her ear and the brand of his touch on her skin now crackles to the surface.

"I don't know how to say this."

_He doesn't want to see you._

"Just say it."

_He feels sorry for you._

"I feel like an idiot."

_I mean, come on Bella, what were you thinking?_

"Please," she whispers. "Just tell me."

She closes her eyes and prepares for the worst.

"I don't want to deliver food to your house any more."

"But why?"

"Because it's embarrassing."

As fast as her eyes can open, she's sitting up rigid in her bed.

"What?"

"Just forget it."

"No! How can it be embarrassing to come—"

"Because!"

And suddenly he's the angry man on the other end of the phone again, the one she'd forgotten about until this moment. When she speaks, she hates the desperation in her voice.

"Because why?"

"Because I want to come to your house as your fucking boyfriend!"

Her response dies in her throat, and she shakes her head at no one.

"I don't understand. I don't—"

His sigh is rough and heavy and she holds her breath.

"I want to ring your doorbell and wait for you on the porch because I'm picking you up or because we're watching a movie on your couch, and not because I have a shitty job that barely pays minimum wage."

"But I—"

"I don't have a college degree, Bella. I barely got my high school diploma. I work my ass off and I still can't pay all my bills. I can never take vacation days because I can't lose the money. You deserve someone who can take care of you, and I hate being reminded that I'm not that guy."

They are both breathing into the phone, but it doesn't match up, and she doesn't like it. She thinks of all the things she's wanted to say, and how foolish she'll sound saying them, so she pulls her pillow into her lap, against her stomach, and holds on.

"When my father died, I was the only one here."

"I'm—"

"I called the hospice nurse, and she was on her way, but it was too late. I closed his eyes with my hand and pulled his sheet around him, and held his hand until someone showed up."

She's crying. It's the punch-in-your-gut kind. The kind that comes without warning.

"Bella—"

"I'm not telling you this because I want you to feel sorry for me. I'm telling you this because I've walked around with the weight of that night in my stomach and on my shoulders. You said Chicago was full of ghosts? Well, this house is full of them, too. Until you came."

This time, he's the one who stops breathing.

"I've only had one other boyfriend in my life, and he was really nice and he made me feel good. But you…you make me feel light. You make me feel strong, and like things are possible. You make me brave. You make me better."

She's not crying anymore and she wipes her face and her nose with her sleeve.

"I see you, Edward Cullen, and you are everything I deserve."

She listens to his breathing calm, lets it relax her until she's lying down, curled on her side and cradling her phone, cradling him, beneath her.

"I have to go, Bella."

She shuts her eyes tight and her voice shakes.

"Okay."

"This isn't—I'm not—I'll see you soon."

He means it, and she nods her head like he can see her.

"Good night, Bella."

_Good night, you sweet and wonderful and broken boy. Let me hold you together. _

"Good night, Edward."

…

It's fifteen minutes after he hangs up, maybe twenty, and she stares into the dark of her room.

She never used to have trouble sleeping. Charlie always joked that she could fall asleep standing up. But months of hanging on to stalls and changes in her father's breaths, and the thundering silence that followed his death, have made her sleep fitful.

And tonight. Tonight, she might not sleep at all.

So when she hears the tap on her window, she thinks it's a bird or a branch and she sighs and pulls her blanket tighter around her.

Then there's another, and another, and then his voice whisper-yelling "Bella" and she's out of her bed and at her window.

She pulls at the lock so hard, she almost breaks it, and she struggles so much with the old painted jambs that by the time it's open and he's there on the sidewalk beneath her, he's laughing and she's too happy to see him to care.

"What are you doing here?"

"I needed to see you."

"Wait, I'll let you in."

"Don't."

"Why?"

"Because I really do need to sleep. And if I come in there right now, I don't think we'll be sleeping."

She can see his smirk and his breath in the cold and she imagines both against her skin, between her legs, and she shudders.

When he speaks, his voice is coarse and he's looking at the place where her sleep shirt meets her thighs.

"Emmett says there's a dance on Friday."

"The Valentine's Dance. I have to chaperone."

He nods.

"Will you go with me?"

She's twenty-two years old and a boy is asking her to a dance. It shouldn't make her heart flutter in her chest, shouldn't make her cheeks hurt from smiling so big. But it does.

"Yes."

He smiles, too, and puts his hands in his pockets.

"I have to go."

"I know."

"I'll see you on Friday."

"Okay."

"I'll call you tomorrow."

"Okay."

He walks closer to her, out of the light from the streetlamp, until his silhouette is right beneath her window.

"I see you too, Bella Swan."

She places her hands on the sill and leans out as far she can. So he hears her. So he's sure.

"I know you do."

She stays there like some brand-new Juliet until she can't hear his car anymore.

Then she closes the window, burrows into her bed, and tries to fall asleep.

It's easy.

And she doesn't wake until morning.

* * *

A/N: I'd say I'm sorry for putting all that angst in your fluff, but I'm not :). These two are lovely, but they still have some stuff to work through.

P.S. I was utterly delighted by all of your comments on their date. That picture was in my head when I first thought of this story (years ago!) and it felt so good to finally make it come true.

See you tomorrow!


	18. Chapter 17

_**word prompt: blackboard (but i just used the "board" part)**_

_**All copyrights, trademarked items, or recognizable characters, plots, etc. mentioned herein belong to their respective owners. No copying or reproduction of this work is permitted without their express written authorization.**_

* * *

here is the deepest secret nobody knows

(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud

and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows

higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)

and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

-e.e. cummings, "i carry your heart with me"

* * *

It's Valentine's Day, so she teaches love poems.

She tries not to blush when Tyler jokes about e.e. cummings and Anne Sexton.

When she reads "your slightest look easily will unclose me" and thinks about Edward.

When she reads every other line of every other poem and thinks about Edward.

When Emmett looks at her (knowingly) when he's not looking at Rosalie (knowingly).

She fails.

But she doesn't mind because her students are laughing and smiling while trying to pretend that a silly dance in a sweaty gym doesn't matter.

She knows they're really thinking of frilly dresses and new suit jackets, of flowers on wrists and hands on waists.

She knows, because she's thinking about it, too.

When the bell rings, she says "I'll see you all tonight" and Tyler yells "You got a hot date, Miss Swan?"

"That's none of your business, Tyler," but her blush betrays her again, and they all yell "Ooooooooh!"

She laughs, her tongue in her cheek, her heart on her sleeve.

Bella packs her things quickly, anxious to get home and get ready and see Edward. The thought of him on her porch and in her arms has her racing around the room, carelessly cleaning the board and nearly tripping over her chair in her haste to get out the door.

She's at the threshold when Mike Newton appears, clicking his tongue in disapproval.

"Leaving so early, Miss Swan?"

"Yes. Sorry. I need to get home to get ready for the dance tonight."

He smiles and leans against the doorway, resting the folders in his hands on his protruding belly.

"I guess I can let it slide this time."

He looks at her legs and she takes two steps away from him.

"So, I guess I'll see you tonight, Mike."

"Most definitely. You need a ride?"

"No" she says, and it's too quick and too loud, and he chuckles.

"You sure you don't want someone to go with? These things are boring as hell, Bella. Not like when we were in school."

She clutches her bag in front of her chest in case he decides to look there, too.

"I didn't really go to dances when we were in school."

"Oh yeah? I don't remember that. You were a lot younger than me."

The way he says "younger" makes her want to gag and she takes two more steps away from him.

"Yeah, well, I'll see you tonight."

"Seriously, Bella. Let me pick you up. We can get dinner before. Make a night of it."

He's all bravado and swagger as he leans against a row of lockers, and for a second she sees him wearing his old letterman jacket, holding a football, and making the same moves on unsuspecting freshman girls.

So many of them never left Forks. Mike never left this hallway.

She bites her lip to keep from laughing and decides not to let him down easy.

"I have a date, Mike."

The way his face falls is more resentful than dejected. It's unnerving, and she clutches her bag a little tighter.

"With who?"

"With my boyfriend," she says, and if she were talking to anyone else, she'd be smiling.

"Who's your boyfriend?"

"He's new in town."

"What's his name?"

"Mike, I really have to go."

"Bella—"

But she's walking away with her back turned, her eyes on the door ahead.

When she yells "I'll see you tonight" over her shoulder, she tries to keep her legs from running.

…

Bella Swan went to her senior prom with a boy named Eric Yorkie, who was decent and polite and would much rather have gone with Embry Call, but no one was supposed to know that (even though everyone did). They met at the banquet hall in Port Angeles and danced with groups of friends. They spent slow songs at the refreshment table. They did not take pictures.

Charlie drove her to Mrs. Greene's to pick out her dress, and he lasted about two minutes in the boutique before leaving to wait in the car.

It was blue and lace confection, and it brushed her calves when she walked.

Now, she pulls it from the back of her closet.

It deserves to be touched by someone else, she thinks. It deserves to be held close.

So she steps into it and pulls it up her body. The lining is cold and it gives her goose bumps.

She's wearing her nicest bra and underwear—a matching set that Angela made her buy—and when she wonders if he'll see them, the goose bumps stretch and span over her skin.

She twists her hair up because she likes his fingers and lips on her neck.

She keeps her makeup soft because it's the only way she knows how.

When the doorbell rings and he's standing in front of her, tying on a corsage he cobbled together with carnations and ribbon, she wishes her dad were here to take pictures and to meet the boy who carries her heart. To shake his hand, hard, and tell him to have her back by midnight. To wait up for her so she can roll her eyes and run upstairs to her bedroom window to wave him goodbye.

Then that boy kisses her shoulder and whispers in her ear.

"I don't have to work tomorrow morning."

And she's glad she's older and wiser and ready to run, surefooted and free, toward what this night will hold.

* * *

_A/N: So remember when I said that this story is rated M for future chapters? The future is now, ladies. Or really, tomorrow._


	19. Chapter 18

_**the word prompt was "nectar," but i didn't use it because no.**_

_**All copyrights, trademarked items, or recognizable characters, plots, etc. mentioned herein belong to their respective owners. No copying or reproduction of this work is permitted without their express written authorization.**_

**_And let's just pretend they had the whole "I'm on the pill"/"i'm clean"/"i'm not a virgin" conversation during one of those late-night phone calls._**

* * *

"Yes yes yes yes yes yes yes."  
- William Faulkner, _As I Lay Dying_

* * *

The dance is a blur, but she holds on to the pictures that stick like they're part of a scrapbook. Something she can look at later when she wants to remember this night.

The way he looked when he looked at her, and how happy she was beside him.

There's Rosalie, smiling in a bright pink dress with streaks to match, Doc Martens on her feet because she will always be that girl. Her corsage matches Bella's and she imagines the boys sitting on their couch and making them together.

There's Emmett, in a brand new jacket and what she's sure is one of Edward's ties, stepping on Rosalie's feet so much she laughs, until he picks her off the ground and turns her in circles, her legs dangling, his arms so big around her she almost disappears.

There's the pack of girls in the bathroom, applying lipstick and trading gossip, and giving her "mad props" for "landing a stone cold fox."

During the fast songs, they stay in the corner of the gym, and he finds reasons to touch her. A lock of hair behind her ear. Something (nothing) on her dress. His fingers intertwined with hers when he's run out of excuses.

During the slow songs, he leads her to the dance floor. They try to remain chaste, try to keep some space and air between their bodies. But sometimes his hands play with the zipper on the back of her dress, and sometimes she pulls hard on his tie, and it's everything they can do not to run to the car or the football field or the janitor's closet with the broken door Bella remembers hearing about in high school.

Sometimes he whispers in her ear.

_"__Have I told you how beautiful you look?"_

_"__Is this over soon?"_

_"__Is that douchey looking guy with the walkie-talkie glaring at me?"_

_"__Have I told you how beautiful look?"_

And sometimes, she whispers back.

_"__Yes."_

_"__Yes."_

_"__Yes."_

_"__Yes."_

When the lights come on, they grin at each other, mischief and greed all over their faces and he leads her out the double doors while she bids hasty good night's and goodbye's behind him.

It's raining outside and he takes off his jacket and holds it over her head while they run toward his car, but she stretches her arms wide and lets the water cool her skin, temper her blood.

He opens her door and they're laughing because the seatbelt won't let it close and it takes three tries before he's bounding to the other side.

When he climbs in, his hair is wet on his forehead and his shirt is sticking to his chest and she needs to kiss him right now, so she does.

Then a car honks and someone (probably Tyler) yells "Get it, Miss Swan!" and they laugh again.

He kisses her one more time, soft and slow and hungry, and then he says,

"Let's get the fuck out of here."

On the way home, she tells him twice to slow down.

She won't have to say it again.

…

She thinks she should be nervous. Her hands should be shaking when she unlocks her door with him behind her, his fingers already removing the pins from her hair. Her knees should buckle when he follows her inside and the lock clicks in to place. Her palms should sweat when he takes the keys out of her hand and hangs them on the hook in the hallway.

But she's not and they don't because it's him and it's her and she has been waiting for this since the first time he held her, and probably before that.

So when he kisses her shoulders and says "I'm sorry if I'm going too fast," she turns around and loops his tie around her hand and pulls his lips toward hers and says,

"Take me to my bedroom. Now."

His eyes get dark, darker, darkest, and his smirk is heavy on his face.

"You have to show me where it is."

Then it's all tongues and limbs navigating the staircase backwards and forwards, and they both trip twice and laugh until her back is against her bedroom door and his arms are caging her in and she's trying to turn the knob but he's licking and kissing her neck and _oh my god_, she didn't know it could feel like this.

When the door wrenches open, she nearly falls back, but he catches her before she tumbles, and then his mouth is on her chest, nipping over her the lace of her dress and she tugs on his hair until they're both moaning each other's names.

He walks them toward the bed, and they kiss while he's pulling down her zipper, but it keeps getting caught so she tries to help and they're giggling and grunting until she finally says,

"Just tear the fucking thing apart."

"But it's pretty," he chides while he rips the lining and lace, and she lies back on the bed so he can pull the dress down her legs.

Then it's just the sound of their breathing, rough and loud in the quiet of her room, and she lifts up on her elbows to look at him.

He's standing in front of her, shirt half open, hair a mess from her hands, holding her dress and staring at her body.

"Fuck, you're beautiful" he says, and she grins like it's a secret and sits up on her knees in front of him.

His hands skim her arms, her sides, her breasts, like he's not sure where to touch her next. She kisses him soft while she unbuttons his shirt and he licks her lip while he unclasps her bra.

They slow each other down, touch for touch, breath for breath. They memorize every curve and plane. Like they might go blind. Like they already are.

And then he's on his knees and between hers, draping her legs over his shoulders and kissing up her thighs.

"You don't have to—"

"Shut up."

Then it's stars behind her eyes, honey in her stomach, earthquakes under her skin, and she's screaming his name while she forgets her own.

When he stands up, he takes her with him, moving them both back on to the bed. When he lays her down, he rests on his elbows so his fingers can play with her hair.

He covers her, consumes her, and she only wants him closer.

Her hands find his length and he groans and presses into them.

"You can't do that."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize. I'm just too close."

So she lifts her knees on either side of his waist and guides him home.

When he's inside, they say "Jesus" at the same time and snicker, but then she's moving her hips and he's gasping for air while she holds on to his neck and kisses whatever skin she can find.

He pants "God" and "Fuck" and "Bella" and she matches every stroke until he collapses around her and inside her, with his face in her hair and her legs still wrapped around him.

When he rolls onto his back, she curves her body around his, resting her head on his heartbeat, tangling his legs with her own.

He holds her there.

"Remember when I said you were kind of amazing?" he asks.

"I do," she says, and smiles.

"I want to take back the 'kind of' part."

She chuckles into his chest. He pulls her closer.

...

She can't tell you who fell asleep first, only that by the time it happened, their skin was cool and their breathing matched, and it was just like it was in her dreams.

Only better.

* * *

_A/N: I so hope I came through for all of you (no pun intended. seriously.). Writing sex is no joke...except for the hilarious conversations I had with my thesaurus._

_And over 1,000 reviews? You are all amazing. Without the "kind of" part._


	20. Chapter 19

_**word prompt: sheet**_

_**All copyrights, trademarked items, or recognizable characters, plots, etc. mentioned herein belong to their respective owners. No copying or reproduction of this work is permitted without their express written authorization.**_

* * *

Lift up your eyes upon

This day breaking for you.

Give birth again

To the dream.

-Maya Angelou, "On the Pulse of Morning"

* * *

She wakes with Saturday morning outside her window, and smiles because she can still feel him.

The run of his tongue on her neck, the weight of his hips between her thighs, the sweet ache he left behind.

She stretches and smiles again because the blanket has been carefully tucked around her, and she knows she didn't do it herself.

"Edward," she sighs, looking to the place where he should be and almost pouting when he isn't there.

She wonders if she slept too late and why he didn't wake her, but her clock says 7:30 and he said he didn't have to work this morning.

"Edward?" Louder now and she wraps herself in the blanket while standing up and walking toward the bathroom.

It's dark and the door is open, so she walks halfway down the stairs.

"Edward?"

Nobody answers.

If she wasn't completely naked and still reeling from the feel of him, she'd doubt he was ever here at all.

She trudges back toward her room and begins accepting all of his possible excuses. He got called in to work at the nursery. Emmett needed his help. He went to get breakfast.

The last one makes her hopeful, and she's grinning again while she slips on an old pair of jeans.

A darker, quieter voice inside whispers,

_Maybe he didn't want to be here any more._

But she refuses to listen, pulling a sweater over her bare chest, letting the wool scratch against her skin.

She should take a shower, but she doesn't want to.

It's kind of dirty, but she doesn't care.

She finds her purse on the counter and checks her phone, but it's long dead and she turns to get her charger.

That's when she sees his jacket folded over the back of the couch.

And hears a rustle and a thud coming from outside.

She races to the door and the ground is freezing under her bare feet, but she hops down anyway and turns the corner.

And she stops.

Because Edward Cullen did not get called in to work early, or go to see Emmett, or leave to pick up breakfast.

Instead, he's standing on a ladder, wearing one of Charlie's old coats, cussing up a storm and fighting with the dead leaves in her rain gutters.

His back is to her, and he's too busy throwing the leaves into a bucket beneath him to hear her approach.

So she crosses her arms and leans against the old siding, and forgets how cold her feet are as she watches him work.

"Mother fucking fuck," he mutters at a particularly stubborn pile, and she grins and walks closer.

"What are you doing?" she says as she holds onto the ladder.

Good thing because he almost falls at the sound of her voice.

"Sorry," they say at the same time, and she holds tighter.

He looks bashful, and she wishes she were tall enough to hold his face and brush the hair out of his eyes.

"I woke up early and I didn't want to wake you, and when I went to get water, I saw the list on the fridge. I found this coat in the hall closet. I don't know, I—"

"You're amazing," she says and he smiles back at her.

"I'll make us some breakfast. How do you like your eggs?"

"Scrambled," he says, and she nods. Then he sees her bare feet and he's all chivalry and concern.

"You must be freezing. Get inside. I'm almost done out here."

"I thought you left."

He takes two steps down and leans toward her.

"I wouldn't do that."

And he kisses her, and his lips are chapped from the cold so she wets them with her tongue.

"I know," she says, because she does now.

…

She makes him a feast, and puts chocolate chips in the pancakes, and then tries to memorize the way his eyes light up like a little kid on Christmas morning.

"Do you work tonight?"

"Yeah, with that catering company. I have to be in Port Angeles at 4."

"Another wedding?"

"Probably."

He wipes his mouth and puts his hand on the small of her back. She runs her fingers through his hair and marvels at how effortless this is. How easy.

"Can I take a shower?"

"Of course. The bathroom's right next to my room."

His hand sinks lower and his fingers brush beneath the waistband of her jeans.

"Is there room for two?"

She looks at his face. His eyes are dark and questioning and she wants to memorize this one, too.

"Not really," she says, "but I'm sure we can figure something out."

And then he's up, throwing his napkin on the table and leading her up the stairs into the bathroom.

When he takes off his shirt and pants, she watches him and bites her lip, and then he does the same.

"You're even more beautiful in the daylight," he whispers, and she looks down where his hands are on her hips, where his stomach muscles clench, and lower still.

"You are, too," she replies.

They take turns washing each other beneath the hot water, and she gives him a mohawk with shampoo while he pays thorough attention to her breasts, and when the water runs cold they yelp and laugh and tumble toward her bed, drying their skin with her sheets and their hands and the shaky gasps of their breath.

This time, she's slow and sure above him, keeping time with the rhythm of his body and the whimpers from his lips until they're both crying out for more and for each other.

This time, when he wraps around her and pulls her close, his head is over her heart, and her hands are in his still wet hair.

This time, he wakes her up with kisses on her stomach and between her breasts.

He's leaning over her, already dressed, and she puts her arms around his neck.

"I have to go."

"Did we sleep that long?"

"It's 1:00, but I need to get ready. And take another shower."

She closes her eyes and kisses the smirk off his face.

"I'll see you later?"

"Of course you will."

She sits up and buttons the rest of his shirt sleepily, brushing her hands across his chest and thinking of all the other places she's discovered.

"Thank you for cleaning my gutters."

"Is that a sex joke?"

She laughs and slaps him on the arm and he kisses her so hard she has to lean back on her elbows.

"Call me tonight?"

"It'll be late."

"I don't care."

He smiles and looks back twice before he leaves.

…

She's getting dressed (again) when she sees it on her nightstand, a sheet of paper he got from the printer on her desk. He must have written it when she was sleeping.

He writes in all caps, and she traces the letters with her fingers.

_You're the most beautiful right now._

She holds his words close to her heart, where he's already burrowed in, where she'll let him stay as long as wants.

It's too fast and too soon to say "forever."

But she allows herself to wonder when it won't be.

* * *

_A/N: I just want you guys to know that Edward was saying "you're the beautiful I've ever seen" until I remembered that it's from Forrest Gump._


	21. Chapter 20

_**All copyrights, trademarked items, or recognizable characters, plots, etc. mentioned herein belong to their respective owners. No copying or reproduction of this work is permitted without their express written authorization.**_

* * *

"There is no book and your fathers are dead in the ground."

-Cormac McCarthy, _The Road_

* * *

When she opens her eyes on Sunday, her lashes stick together with sleep and dry tears.

Last night when he called, they talked about Charlie.

She had been so good at keeping it at arm's length, just on the periphery, never interrupting the soft laughs and secret smiles from their whispers in the dark. But then he asked if she ever visited his grave, and she couldn't keep the walls from cracking and closing in.

Because she hasn't visited. Not once. Not since the gray morning they laid him to rest.

_You must think I'm terrible._

_It's okay if you're not ready, Bella._

_I just—when I think about going and standing there and seeing his name, I can't do it._

_You will. When the time is right, you will._

She told him she was tired. That she had to go. And he asked over and over if she was sure, if she was okay, if she needed him to come over, because he would.

Of course he would.

But there are some things even his strong arms and sweet words can't fix.

And when she hung up, she cried into her pillow so the sound wouldn't echo and remind her all over again of what she lost after her father left.

And before.

So when she rubs her eyes in front of the bathroom mirror, the girl who looks back is not the same one she saw yesterday morning. She misses her already.

She showers and dresses slowly, her thoughts a jumble that keep coming back to the same thing.

She has to do it.

Because there is no "right time" for a 22 year old girl to visit her father's grave.

…

The drive to the cemetery is too short for comfort, and she listens to an entire song on the radio before she turns off the engine.

She walks with her head down, her hands fisted in the pockets of her coat, trying to avoid the names and dates that surround her. And the thought of what lies beneath her feet.

She's only travelled this path once, but somehow, she knows the way by heart.

Some things, you just don't forget.

She sees the tree first, a great Sitka spruce that towers above the rest. Strong and solid. Like him. Like the man he was before.

Below the branches, a figure kneels, and as she gets closer, she recognizes the long gray braids and broad shoulders of Billy Black.

"Billy?"

He turns sharply at the sound of her voice, and starts to get up when he sees her.

"Bella—"

"Please don't get up." She notices the leaves in his hand.

"What are you doing?"

"Just cleaning up a bit."

"Oh. Thank you."

"It's no problem, sweetheart."

She feels awkward in her body, in her bones, and he must sense it because he says,

"It's good to see you here."

"It's good to see you, too. How often do you come?"

"I try to get here ever Sunday."

And then it's shame and guilt and every other awful thing that weighs on her heart, and those walls that were just beginning to fragment now shatter. She thinks she says "I'm sorry" and "I should have come" but she can't hear herself for the roaring in her head.

When she opens her eyes, she's shaking, and Billy's arms are around her.

"You need to stop being so hard on yourself."

"But I should have—"

"Girl, you took care of that man better than anyone else. There are no rules for dealing with this."

She sniffs and wipes her nose on her sleeve.

"I still should have been here."

The old man steps back and holds on to her shoulders, and bends down to look her in the eye.

"He ain't here. This is just a place for us to come when we need to."

She nods and hugs him hard.

"You want me to stay?"

"No. Thank you. Thank you for everything."

He tousles her hair and it always makes her smile.

"I gotta get home anyway. You be good."

She nods again, and then it's just her and the cold morning air and the small stone in the ground beneath her.

She kneels. She breathes. And she touches his name.

"Hi, Dad."

She tells him about school, how much she likes her students—even Tyler Crowley—how they read _Of Mice and Men_ and yawped on top of their chairs, how Mike Newton is still an asshole.

And then she tells him that she met a boy. That his name is Edward and that he's good and decent and kind and she thinks they would have liked each other. That she wishes they could have known each other because even though it's new, it feels permanent somehow.

She tells him not to worry.

She tells him "I miss you."

When she stands, her jeans are wet, but she feels weightless.

She looks up at the tree, at the light breaking through the branches.

She says "I'll be back soon."

…

On the drive home, a song comes on the radio, and it's one of Charlie's favorites. She remembers how he'd play it on their record paper, saying "it just sounds better this way," and how he'd try to pretend he wasn't singing along.

In her memories, he's healthy and strong and he takes up the whole room.

She turns the volume up, rolls down the window, and sings.


	22. Chapter 20: Part 2

_**All copyrights, trademarked items, or recognizable characters, plots, etc. mentioned herein belong to their respective owners. No copying or reproduction of this work is permitted without their express written authorization.**_

* * *

"Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that's no matter—to-morrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther. . . . And one fine morning—"

-F. Scott Fitzgerald, _The Great Gatsby_

* * *

She drives on back roads, twisting and turning through tunnels of trees until she's nearly out of gas and the afternoon threatens to turn into twilight.

She thinks about Edward, how the flurries in her stomach have given way to a contentment that pervades her body. A peace that consumes.

She likes this better. Likes _him_ better than she ever thought possible.

The other word, the better word, is on the tip of her tongue, but she swallows it.

Not possible. Not yet.

Almost.

Especially when she pulls in to her driveway and sees him sitting on the porch steps, his head down, elbows on his knees, a bouquet of flowers in his hands.

He stands at the sight of her, and the way he smiles makes her breath hitch.

She goes to open the door, but he's already there, holding her hand, then holding her close.

"You went, didn't you?"

He knows. Of course he knows.

She nods into his chest and he holds her tighter.

"Are you okay?"

She looks up at his face and brushes the hair out of his eyes.

"I am. I will be."

"You will be," he agrees, and she kisses him soundly.

"Are those for me?"

He's suddenly shy, and she kisses him again.

"They're just some cuttings. The colors made me think of you."

The flowers are blues and lavenders and creams, like the ocean at dusk.

"They reminded me of your dress. The one you wore on Friday."

The memory of her dress makes her remember the way he tore it in half, and she takes him by the hand, through the front door, and upstairs.

…

They lie together, sweat cooling on their skin, while he traces letters and pictures on her back.

"Tell me about your adventures. The ones you were saving up for."

She sighs, still hazy from the heat they made together.

"I had a list."

"A list?"

"A list of places I wanted to see. I was saving up for a trip to Europe after graduation."

"But then you had to come home."

"Then I had to come home."

The flutter of his fingers turns to gentle scratches across her shoulder blades, and she shivers.

"What was on your list?"

"France first. Paris, of course, and then the countryside. Then Belgium, then Eastern Europe—Berlin and Prague. And all the places in between."

She can picture them clearly, the lines she drew across maps, the highlights and notations in her used travel books. She can still see herself, staying up late to post questions and plans on travel forums. She can still feel it, the anticipation of a new journey, of seeing a world so far away from home.

But they are ancient memories, fuzzy at the corners, worn down by time and too much experience.

"Do you still think about going?"

"No."

His hand freezes.

"Why?"

"Some things are more important."

She feels him shift beneath her, and she lifts her head from his chest. He rests his head on his arm and looks her in the eye.

"Nothing's more important than the things you care about."

She thinks about this boy, who spent his whole life fighting, for himself and the things—the people—that matter. Her dreams seem small by comparison.

"I don't care about it anymore."

He touches her cheek, her hair, the back of her neck.

"I don't believe you."

She runs her hand up his arm, down his chest, and tickles the muscles on his stomach until he hisses.

"You want me to go?"

He grabs her wrist, kisses her palm.

"I want you have all the things you want."

"And what do you want, Edward Cullen?"

This time, he sighs and lies back, and they're right where they started.

"I want to see Emmett graduate high school and go to college. I want to start going to that community college in Port Angeles so I can stop living off shitty tips and minimum wage. I want to see what Forks looks like in the fall."

She smiles.

"You can have all the things you want, Edward."

His lips are in her hair.

"So can you, Bella."

It sounds silly and childish, so she only says it in her head.

_What if all I want is you?_

But he sees her, every part of her, outside and in. So he whispers,

"You have me."

And she can't tell him yet how much she feels, how much she loves, how much she dreams about their life together.

So she shows him instead.

* * *

_A/N: After all the sweet words for the last chapter, I couldn't leave you without some sweet Edward to start your weekend off right. :)_

And I especially want to thank all of you who were gracious and brave enough to share you stories of loss with me. I lost my dad nearly ten years ago-and far, far too soon. Extra love to all the Charlie's here and gone, and to all the women who are better for having known, and been loved, by them.


	23. Chapter 21

_**word prompt: pajamas**_

_**All copyrights, trademarked items, or recognizable characters, plots, etc. mentioned herein belong to their respective owners. No copying or reproduction of this work is permitted without their express written authorization.**_

* * *

"What happens to a dream deferred?"

-Langston Hughes, "Harlem"

* * *

It's still dark when she pulls in to the school parking lot, but she has copies to make and the workroom is always packed on Monday mornings.

She fights to balance her heavy bag, her purse, and her travel coffee mug as she kicks the door of her truck closed.

"Need some help there, Bella?"

Mike Newton has parked in the empty space next to hers, and she tries to smile politely.

"No thanks, Mike. I got it."

"Sure you do," he smirks, and she tries not to roll her eyes.

This is the part where she wants to walk away, quickly, but politeness dictates that she stay and go inside with him.

"I noticed you at the dance on Friday."

_No shit. _

"Yeah. It was fun. The kids did a great job."

He smiles, but his eyes narrow.

"I noticed your date, too. The new kid's brother, huh?"

Her feet move faster, and she welcomes the warmth from inside as she pushes the entrance door open with her back.

"Yep. That's him."

"I remember when he came in for registration. They live out in that trailer park on Calawah, right?"

It's the way he says "trailer park." Dismissive. Disgusting. And when she stops, her coffee sloshes a bit and spills out the top of the lid and on to her hand.

"Why do you ask, Mike?"

Her bag falls a bit further down her arm, and the way he's looking at her makes her want to hit him with it.

"Not saying anything, Bella. Just figured a girl like you would be holding out for something better."

He stands up straighter, and she debates whether or not a steady paycheck is better than the satisfaction she would feel from punching him in the face.

She breathes.

"Is there a problem with my seeing Edward, Mike? Because I don't recall the employee handbook mentioning anything about that."

He leans against the wall, like he's basking in her discomfort. Like he likes to see her this way.

"Technically, there's no policy against it. But I don't need to remind you that you're just a sub, Bella. I'd hate for any personal distractions to affect your performance in the classroom. Especially when your employment here is so…tenuous?"

_Big words for a small man. You must have looked that one up._

"Thank you for your concern, Mike. I assure you that it won't be a problem."

He steps forward. Closer. And she wants to retch.

"Let's hope so."

He saunters away from her, whistling, and even the warmth of the hallway cannot mask the chill in her bones.

…

She's jumpy for the rest of the day, flustered and anxious, and she hates that someone as worthless as Mike Newton can take up residence in her mind.

In sixth period, she passes out copies of _The Great Gatsby_, and takes comfort in the fact that the groans and grumbles are (mostly) replaced by quiet and the sounds of book covers opening, pages turning.

Victoria says, "This is that movie with Leonardo DiCaprio," and a few other girls nod in recognition.

Bella smiles. She was ready for this.

"It was made in to a movie. Two, in fact."

"Can we just watch that instead?" asks Nathan.

"We can watch it when we're done, but I think you may end up liking the book more than the movie."

"Not possible, Miss Swan," and he's so serious, it makes her laugh.

"We'll see, Nathan."

She walks back to the lectern and holds up the book with both hands. The yellow eyes on the cover gaze back at her, and she remembers the first time she held it. She was their age: full of possibility, waiting for wonder, looking toward the light at the end of the dock.

"_The Great Gatsby_ is considered one of the greatest pieces of American literature. It's about haves and have-nots, innocence and corruption. But more than anything else, _The Great Gatsby_ is about dreams."

"Lame," coughs Tyler, but she takes it in stride.

"I'm talking about big dreams. Epic dreams. The kind that influence everything you do. The kind that change the course of your life."

She has their attention now.

"Everyone take out a sheet of paper," and they sigh, so she promises, "You're only going to write a few words."

Pens and pencils appear in hands, and blank white sheets get passed around by the few students who actually bring supplies to class.

"I want you to write down the biggest, craziest dream you have."

Tyler starts writing immediately, and she cautions,

"You're going to share it with the rest of the class, so try to keep it school appropriate."

He swears and flips his paper to the other side.

She takes a blank sheet from her desk and writes with black marker,

_See the world._

"Now hold them up," she says, and she starts with her own.

They look around, nervous to be the first, until Rosalie's hands shoot up with bright red letters.

_Live in New York._

And Emmett quickly follows.

_Buy my own house._

Then one by one, arms reach for the ceiling, and she is surrounded by their wishes, hopes, and dreams. Some make her laugh, some make her heart clench, some make her fill to bursting with pride.

Together, they take her breath away.

_Become a rock star._

_Marry Ryan Gosling._

_Graduate from college._

_Win an Oscar._

_Win the lottery._

_Meet my Mom._

_Own my own company._

_Have my own TV show._

_Become a doctor._

_Become a nurse._

_Cure breast cancer._

_Leave Forks._

_Leave Forks._

_Leave Forks._

She smiles so big, her nose crinkles and she can feel the muscles in her mouth stretch.

"Now look back at your own paper. Memorize it."

They do.

"That's your green light."

…

At night, she sits on the couch in her pajamas and pretends to watch television.

She thinks about Rosalie Hale and the words they exchanged after the bell rang and most of the students had shuffled out the door.

_"__New York, huh?"_

_"__Maybe after I graduate."_

_"__You'll do it. I know you will."_

_The girl nodded, and picked up the paper with block letters that said "See the World."_

_"__You will, too, Miss Swan."_

She shifts her body so she's facing the hallway and looks at the glass bottle, full to the brim with years of loose change and dreams meant to be fulfilled.

They come back to her then, the pictures she used to conjure in her head. Eating a real croissant in a Paris café. Standing at the top of the Eiffel Tower. Beer gardens in Berlin. The St. Charles bridge in Prague.

Except now there's someone next to her. Holding her hand. Fighting over the map. Taking pictures while she smiles with her arms outstretched.

There's a spark. A light.

And the dream rekindles.

* * *

_A/N: Sorry for the wait. I promise that Edward will be in the next chapter, and that the next chapter will happen tomorrow. _


	24. Chapter 22

A/N: So two weeks ago, I went on vacation, and before I did I posted this long-ish chapter with a lovely note telling you that I'd see you in two weeks. My vacation was fabulous, and I looked forward to coming home and reading some reviews before finishing up the next chapter. Except either I or is technically challenged because this chapter never posted, and I'm so sorry if I made some of you think I disappeared. That's not going to happen.

So here is the chapter that you should have had a long time ago. Again, my apologies to those of you were like "That's why I don't read WIP's!"

I'll see you this weekend!

* * *

"One might almost say that an apparition is human vision corrected by divine love. I do not see you as you really are, Joseph; I see you through my affection for you. The Miracles of the Church seem to me not to rest so much upon faces or voices or healing power coming suddenly near to us from afar off, but upon our perceptions being made finer, so that for a moment our eyes can see and our ears can hear what is there about us always."

Willa Cather, _Death Comes for the Archbishop_

* * *

When there's a knock on her classroom door, she thinks that it's Mike and braces herself. Both feet solid on the floor. Arms crossed tight against her chest.

"Come in."

"Good morning, Bella!"

Esme Platt has far too much energy for 7:30 in the morning, but she is a welcome sight.

"Good morning, Esme. How are you?"

"Counting the days until spring break, just like everyone else, Miss Swan."

Bella chuckles in understanding, because if the person who coined the term "the dog days of summer" had been a teacher, it surely would have been "the dog days of late winter" instead.

Esme surprises her by sitting down in one of the student desks, crossing her legs and looking expectantly at Bella until the younger woman sits next to her.

"How has everything been going in here?"

Her voice is tinged with concern and it makes Bella wary.

"It's been going really well." And she's glad she doesn't have to lie this time.

"You've started _The Great Gatsby_, I see?"

"Yes."

"And so we beat on, boats against the current," Esme sighs, losing herself for a moment before stopping and smiling and looking back at Bella. "They'll love it. They always do."

"I think so, too."

"And you're sure everything's okay?"

"Yes. Is there a reason you're asking?"

Esme looks down at her desk, and it's enough to put Bella on edge. On guard. The older woman exhales.

"Mr. Newton asked me to observe some of your classes."

"I don't under—"

But Bella is silenced by Esme raising her hand and shaking her head.

"I know. The man is a troll. Has been since he was a freshman."

Bella can't help but laugh, and Esme smiles as she leans closer.

"I know you're doing a great job, Bella. And I intend to tell him just that."

"How do you know?"

Esme looks around at the classroom, and Bella's eyes follow, taking in the brightly colored posters and typed essays that hang on the walls, marked with praise in her swooping cursive letters. She looks at the dry erase doodles that cover the borders of her white board, "gifts" drawn by students that she always leaves up until the space is claimed by someone else. She looks at the piles of papers on her desk and the art supplies that sprawl across the table in the corner of the room. And she wonders what Esme sees.

Then the older woman speaks.

"It feels good in here, Bella. There's life in here."

And Bella smiles, warm from Esme's compliment and the knowledge that it's true.

Esme places her hand on the younger woman's shoulder.

"I see life in you, too, Bella."

The blush deepens. The smile widens.

"Thank you, Esme."

"Have you thought about getting your credential? Washington State and U-Dub both have two-year programs. You can do most of the classes online, and work here full-time while you finish."

And she had thought about it. She might have even done some research on both of those programs and the requirements and expectations involved.

"I still have that one class to take to finish my degree."

"So take it. You're not going to let three units get in the rest of your life, are you?"

It does sound ridiculous when Esme says it, and Bella nods.

"I'll think about it."

The older woman pats Bella's shoulder and moves to stand.

"You should. I'd be happy to write you a letter of recommendation. I'll talk to Mr. Lynch about writing you one, too."

Bella rises after her, and follows Esme to the door.

"Principal Lynch? I think I've met him once, and he was leaving to go to a meeting."

Esme turns back and smiles.

"Get used to it, sweetheart."

Bella expects her to leave, to race to the work room to make a million copies, or read an entire novel before the first bell rings. So she retreats to her white board and begins to write the day's agenda. When she turns to check the clock, Esme is still leaning against the doorway with her arms crossed and her eyes soft and knowing.

"Do you need something else, Esme?"

"No," she smiles. "It's just this place."

"What about it?"

"It suits you."

…

It's nearly 10:30 when he rings her doorbell, and she smiles as she turns off the stove and walks toward the door.

_Come over when you're done with work._

_I can't stay the night._

_I don't care. I'll cook something._

_Yeah?_

_What do you want?_

_Just you._

She opens the door wide and grins.

By now, she should be used to seeing him standing in front of her. His hands always in his pockets. His head always ducked a little low so when he looks up at her, it's through his eyelashes. She should be used to the way his smile always starts when she appears, and gets bigger after they kiss. How the first kiss is always quick and hungry, but the second is slow as he pulls her close and walks her backwards.

She should be used to all of it. But it always feels new.

"It smells amazing in here."

"I made tacos. Is that okay?"

"Are you kidding? I'm so sick of Italian."

"What's in the bag?"

"Tiramisu," he says and his smile is contrite. "I don't think I could ever get sick of that."

She nods and walks to the stove, lifting the lid of the pan, and stirring its contents a few more times.

And then he's behind her, his arms wrapped around her waist, his forehead resting on her shoulder, his words warm on her back.

"I missed you today."

"I miss you every day."

He lifts his head and she feels his smile in her hair.

"How do you always smell so good?"

"I probably smell like ground beef."

"Hm. That's not it."

He inhales so hard, it tickles and makes her laugh and she stumbles toward the table with him behind her.

"Sit down, and I'll get your food."

"Yes ma'am," he says, pinching her ass when she walks away.

They eat and talk, and he always maneuvers his plate so that his hand never leaves hers.

"How was your day?"

She remembers playing house in pre-school. Jessica Stanley always assigned parts and they would act out scenes of domesticated family life: Jessica cooking on the small wooden stove and Bella coming home to eat after a long day's work. Sometimes, it ended in a plastic food fight. Sometimes, it ended in tears because other girls wanted to be the mommy and Jessica refused to relinquish the title.

But it was always make-believe.

Except now he's eating food she made in her kitchen and sitting next to her at the table, and he brought dessert home from work, and he's asking how her day is.

And it's real.

So she smiles, and holds his hand a little tighter.

"It was good. Really good, actually. I told you about Esme, right?"

"Head of your department?"

"Yeah. She wants me to get my teaching credential."

He interlocks their fingers.

"You haven't thought about it before?"

"Not until recently."

He kisses her. Soft.

"You should do it."

"We'll see. I can take online classes so I can still work, but it'll be hard."

"Sure. But it'll be worth it, right?"

"I think so. It would be nice to have benefits."

"No shit."

She laughs. "And if I'm a real teacher, Mike Newton can't fire me for not going out with him."

His fork clatters against his plate and his eyes grow hard and wary as they train on hers.

"Who the fuck is Mike Newton?"

She shakes her head.

"He's no one. Just some asshole I went to high school with. The douchey guy who kept staring at you during the dance."

She watches his eyebrows knit together, watches him remember.

"So why can he fire you?"

"He's the Assistant Principal."

Edward picks up his fork, but he's holding it like a weapon.

"Is he fucking with you?"

She puts her other hand over the one still locked between her fingers.

"I can handle it," she says, and her voice is strong.

He sets his fork down, quietly this time, before raising their hands to his mouth and kissing her knuckles.

"You have to tell me if he crosses the line."

"I will."

"Promise me."

"I promise," she says, letting go of his hand so she can put both of hers in his hair, and he whispers against her lips.

"Let me take care of you."

She just nods and kisses him and climbs into his lap, and then he's picking her up and she's wrapping her legs around his waist and lifting her shirt and bra over head while he walks them to the couch.

It's hurried this time, fast and frenetic, and somehow her jeans come off while his are just open enough and then she's slick and sliding on top of him. She likes the way the cotton of his shirt rubs against her chest, the way his jeans feel against her thighs, the way his hands don't stop moving against her skin, and the way he looks at her in wonder and revelation.

And when they come together, she knows how he feels.

Because finding this person, feeling this way.

It must be some kind of miracle.


End file.
